


Drawn Blinds On Office Windows

by castielslovesong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Office, Blow Jobs, Dean Hates Himself, Ex fire fighter Dean, Fire, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Nightmares, Protective Castiel, Protective Sam Winchester, Scars, Secretary Dean, Tattooed Dean, Tattoos, What else is new, Writer Castiel, deancasheartbreakbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2657609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielslovesong/pseuds/castielslovesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester hasn’t always wanted to be a secretary, he’s not that into the public image or spending the whole day behind a desk but, as they say, a lot of things have changed since he was younger. Landing a job at the infamous Celestial Inc - a very prestigious publishing company - under the equally esteemed Castiel Novak, Dean starts on a journey that will test his limits as a secretary and a friend. Coupled with the troubling upturn of the rest of his life, balancing falling in love with his boss, a change in their relationship, his parent's health declining, Dean finds comfort in a way that he definitely probably shouldn't.</p><p>In time, will Cas learn about his rotten past? Or will the consequences of those actions rear it's ugly head too soon?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Secretary

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wonderful, precious Lisa :3  
> What a babe.
> 
>  
> 
> Hit the comment box if you'd like to let me know what you thought c:

When Castiel’s secretary stormed into his office, resignation letter in hand, he hadn’t expected her to be efficient enough to hire her own replacement. To be honest, he wasn’t entirely sure she knew how to write a proper email. He slips on his glasses, paying no mind to the slam of his door as she marks her exit.

Skimming the letter, he picks up on a few of her key points: he’s abrasive, blunt and often rude. He chuckles to himself; you don’t get into this business being an angel. The business, that is, of publication. They’re the largest company on the west coast, drawing in some of the heavy hitters in both the film and book industry. Thus, Castiel’s position as one of the senior management was not an easy one to come about.

With immediate scepticism, he slips his finger under the sticky edge of the envelope and drags his finger across. He pulls the letter out, screwing the envelope into a ball with one hand and tossing it into the waste bin. The man’s name is Dean Winchester, 26, he reads, with an impressive CV and more than enough experience to satisfy the job description. He further notes, with a buzz of added curiosity that Dean sidelines as a tattoo artist.

_Reign it in, Castiel._

There’s a mobile number at the top and, considering Zachariah is on his ass 90% of the time, he decides to call Dean for an interview. Just because his sloppy assistant deemed him suitable does not mean he is also entitled to do so.

“Hello?” A gruff voice answers, shaking Castiel out of his thoughts. The accent is hard to place, perhaps southern Kansas or Texas.

“Is this Dean Winchester?”

“Depends on who wants to know.”

Castiel considers at his answer with curiosity.

“My name is Castiel Novak; I believe you applied for a secretary position at Celestial Inc.”

In the background banging and shouting rattles through the phone. The man, Dean, swears and he can hear him rustle as he moves.

“Yes, I did,” his tone is far more formal, “does this mean I got it?”

“Not as yet. I would like to set up an interview, tomorrow at 1 if amenable with you.”

More banging and a muffled cry. “Yeah that’s fine. See you then, Ca- Mr Novak.”

Dean hangs up first.

Most intriguing, Castiel thinks while staring at his phone before placing it down on the desk. He doesn’t get to background check, or look further into Dean Winchester as he is called directly into a meeting. However, he is filled with a strange anticipation for tomorrow.

***

Dean woke up this morning not too worried about his job interview with Mr ‘Castiel Novak.’ Or more affectionately, in his imagination, gravel chugger. Seriously, he should have screen played for Batman, he definitely has a voice deep enough to rival Christian Bale. Which is super hot, you know, in his playful imagination.

Groaning, he slides his legs out of bed. He has a good 3 hours before he intends to be anywhere near Celestial Inc; yet here he is, up and at ‘em. It’s a good habit to get into, he surmises, now that he’s going to be back into full daytime employment and all. He’s used to working long days and busy nights. His self proclaimed 4 hours became something of a comfort when he first moved away from home.

The cotton of his thread bare shirt sticks to his frame, from lying in a patch of his own sweat. _Gross_. He doesn’t normally sleep in till 10am, he’s a grown ass man, you can’t afford to, but he went almost the whole night in _that_ dream again – he needed the extra hours to be readily conversational in the interview.

He hasn’t always wanted to be a secretary, he’s not that into the public image or spending the whole day behind a desk, as they say, a lot of things have changed since he was younger. Luckily, when he moved states, he made the conscious decision not to put his previous job on his CV. All the rest accounts for good work experience, but when you say you’re an ex-fire fighter, people just want to ask questions. He doesn’t want any more questions. If Castiel really wants to find out about him, his dirty secrets are just a Google search away. Doesn’t mean Dean will be the one to bring it up, though. Certain things you just have to accept...

His hand runs absently over his chest, where even without looking he can feel where the sensation of touch stops. He takes a deep breath. Wearing a monkey suit isn’t his idea of fun really either, but it helps bring money in and it keeps him busy.

He has to keep busy.

It’s a funny thing, to be afraid of your own mind. He can get trapped there sometimes, with the phantom singe of flames on his skin and the burn of smoke in his lungs. What was once what he was used to, that used to keep him alive, to keep him feeling human, surrounds him now and cloaks his senses. Sam’s always bitching about him going to a therapist, because talking about it is going to make it all go away.

He closes his eyes, exhaling a long, shuddering breath.

It never goes away.

Speaking of Sammy, he picks up his phone and leans against his breakfast bar. Through the thin walls of his dingy apartment, he can hear the screaming of Chuck and Becky’s kid next door, the arguments of someone else further up the corridor. He chuckles.

_Another day in paradise._

The dialling tone sounds and he idly traces the cracks on his ceiling.

“Hey Dean.”

“Heyya Sammy.”

Just the sound of his little brother’s voice calms him down. He can forget, for a while.

“How you doing?”

Ah Sam, the awkward small talk enthusiast. They both know the subject they’re trying to avoid though and Dean definitely isn’t going to be the one to jump in it.

“Pretty good. I got a job interview today. How’s the better half?”

“I’m great, hey Dean!” He hears Jess’ high pitched tone stifled though the speaker. Sniggering, he shakes his head. Sammy has damn good taste in women.

Sam stays quiet.

It’s the awkward kind of quiet.

“... Have you spoken to Mom and Dad lately?”

Dean tries not to swallow his tongue. Of course he has, his Mom and Dad are everything to him, along with Sam, and he calls them at least once a week. He tries to call more, what with Mom’s-

“Yeah,” He croaks, “Yeah Dad said...”

“I know.” Sam replies quietly. God he doesn’t want to have this conversation with his baby brother. He should be focussing on school and his kick ass girlfriend.

“You worry about school Sammy, I’m going to go up there as soon as I can.”

“Yeah Dean, you know you can call me anytime right? You’re my brother. It’s just... I can’t believe it happened to Mom, you know?”

Dean doesn’t say anything to that. What can he say? They’re lucky it didn’t happen to any of them, to her, sooner. They should be grateful for the 20 or so years they had of good, and not crash that with ‘I didn’t think it would happen’ because realistically, painfully, it had always been a possibility.

They move on a few tense seconds later.

The small talk continues, Sam talking animatedly about his friends and lawyery stuff and thankfully the first half of their conversation sinks to the back of their minds.

He hangs up and manoeuvres around his flat, removing his shirt and changing his boxers. There aren’t any mirrors in the rooms, save for the full length one in his bathroom. He’s not ashamed and thanks to his fully body tattoos, you can hardly tell the pain he’s endured; if he was asked what was worse, burning or drowning, he would accept drowning in a heartbeat. Mirrors still make him twitchy though, so he sticks to plain cream walls and peace of mind.

It’s a shame the policy for Celestial Inc is strict: no tattoos, no piercings, no _anything_ out of the ordinary. Total horse shit, like having ink on his arms is going to distract him from making calls or worse, intimidate his co-workers! Please. It’s hypocrisy gone mad.

So no, he’s not ashamed, more like self conscious. He glances down at him arms, the digits of feathers and blotches of watercolour and dot work covering the discoloured skin. When the needle pressed into those parts of his body, he didn’t even feel it. That detachment, the complete loss of sensation in certain places reminds him that he is fragile. Humans are so easy to break.

All of which is another reason why he wants to go back to having a secretary job. He knows what people want and takes great satisfaction in being the one to organise it and provide it. As much as his life is a clusterfuck of bad decisions and regrets, he’s had moments of bliss too, he can organise someone else’s schedule perfectly. Complete control: take risks, provide and earn reward.

That and the pay check from the tattoo parlour barely makes rent.

His phone rings, drawing his attention from his own cross body examination. He picks up his shirt and does up the zipper to the slacks that he had started to put on and were resting on the curve of his hips.

“Hello?”

“Are you _Dean Winchester_?” The man at the other end of the line spits his name with such venom that Dean is momentarily stunned into silence.

“Who is this?” Holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear, he pulls the soft cotton over one arm, flicking his wrist a couple of times to get his other arm through the hole.

“Who is...?  Who is this?! This is Uriel Rowley and _this_ is me calling you at 11am ready for my rescheduled meeting with Mr Novak, standing here in front of an _empty_ _desk_.”

“Easy there Chuckles,” Dean pinches his brow, so Cas’ ex-employee was an asshat, awesome. And now he has to clean up the mess, super. “How did you get this number?”

“I called Mr Novak’s secretary and she promptly informed me she was no longer under Castiel’s employment. She forwarded me to you, who she said was involved with ensuring Castiel knew of my change of plans. I am a busy man and I will not tolerate this form of incompetency.”

Dean blows out a careful breath. Uriel Rowley, that’s a familiar name. This is probably a big deal for his not-even-employer-yet and whoever his last secretary was he must have pissed her off real bad.

“Mr Rowley, I apologise sincerely for my _incompetence_ ,” He makes sure to stress the word. These money hoarding big wigs love to hear a poor man beg, “I assure you that it is my fault entirely for Mr Novak not being informed of the new meeting time. He’ll need a few minutes to get there, would it be possible for you to return at 12:30?”

Internally, he winces. This is close to begging and, even to close deals, that’s going a little far for his taste.

“I do not think-“

“I can assure you that it will be worth your while. Again I apologise profusely.”

The other man goes quiet.

“Very well, but you tell Castiel that this is his final chance if he wishes to go ahead with ‘An Angel’s Betrayal’.”

He lets out the breath he was holding when Uriel hangs up and clutches the phone as he looks to his dismal ceiling. His eyes retrace the cracks, leading in a weirdly crooked path to his curtain rail. The word he finds once more is fitting enough: dismal. Invested now in the assurance of this potential business opportunity, he finishes the buttons to his shirt and throws on a tie.

Dean exits his flat, heaving the door shut at the hinge, hard. He turns the key in the lock, jiggling it when it gets stuck and walks, briefcase in hand, to the elevator. He passes Benny on the way there, and his pregnant wife Angela, waving at his friend. Benny tips his cap and Angela smiles.

Benny had moved to Cali with him when things got really shitty just after he uprooted from Lawrence. He’s been the best friend he’s ever had – though Benny owes him now because he met Andrea at the fire department here. 2 years on the road and all it took was one phone call with Benny; 3 hours on a computer to find an apartment complex with more than 1 flat for rent, to change his entire life. He can’t even say his own brother would do that for him.

Once inside the elevator, he goes back to imagining the face that accompanies that voice, and hopes that him being there early won’t fuck it up for Castiel.


	2. First Day

Screw Heather. _Smite her_ to god damn _hell._

He’s late. There’s a really important meeting with the director of the new film (consisting solely of him and said director) that is worth over 2 million dollars to the company. Zachariah is going to have an aneurism when he finds out. Then he’s going give Castiel another torturous lecture because, no matter what, it’s his own fault.

All because Heather decided she was going to be a petulant _brat_ , he stabs at his floor number in the elevator; attempting to flatten his still manic hair in the mirror. She had not informed him that the time had changed from 3pm to 11am and, as a consequence, the chances are that (assuming the man waited an _hour_ and a _half_ ) it will also spill over to his interview with his new secretary.

Castiel is not having a good day.

He has already inhaled around 2 cups of coffee, just on his way over, and he runs a hand down his face at the same time as the doors ping open to his floor. The perpetual 5 o’clock shadow scrapes past his finger tips and he closes his eyes to clench his fist in a moment to steel himself. Stepping out of the elevator, he strides purposefully to where his office resides.

He is stopped dead in his tracks.

Perched on the edge of his former secretaries desk – he really must stop planning ways to get her back in his mind – is a man. He slides off, in a single graceful move, finishing up a phone call and placing the phone back on the catch.

“Who the hell ar-“ Castiel starts, fuming at the arrogance of whoever this is.

“Dean Winchester,” He smiles, confidence toned down to sheepish as he sticks his hand out to shake. “I’m sorry, I know I’m early but,” Without blinking, Dean stops, reaches forwards and fixes his backwards tie.

At least he has the grace to freeze for a second after doing so, but shrugs when he sees Castiel’s arched brow. It’s almost a familiar action and Castiel had been too shocked to stop him.

“Anyway, your aborted 11 o’clock is here,” He stops him from questioning, with a raise of two hands in surrender, “I’ll explain later, go.”

Castiel is forcefully pushed into his office, flustered but he manages to collect himself at the sight of Uriel.

“You should hire better staff.” The man rises from the chair, unlit cigar thrust unceremoniously between his teeth; they shake hands. “That secretary of yours is pretty, but if he messes up again, I won’t be coming back.”

“O-f course.” Castiel recovers quickly, gesturing for him to once again take a seat while moving round his desk to do the same.

Dean has a lot to explain – that much is true – but right now he can’t think anything more than the gratitude swirling through him. It takes everything for him not to slump into his chair and be sucked into the expensive leather.

They talk for at least 2 hours. Discussing scripts and schedules and actors together; suffice to say Castiel prefers the writing side of his job. He’s not a huge people person.

Exhausted, he closes the door, Uriel leaving with plans cemented on a multimillion dollar contract. He nearly drains when he hears a light knock moments later. Straightening himself, he scrubs a hand over his stubble and clears his throat.

“Come in.”

The door opens. It’s Dean, with coffee. He doesn’t really care for their interview now, this man can stay.

“Dean,” his voice deflates and he sinks back into the chair. For some reason he doesn’t think Dean is going to pick up on it, not like Zachariah would or anyone else who expects him to be the image of ‘proper’.

“Mr Novak,” Dean greets, a small smile forming on his lips. He places the coffee on his desk, sliding it across the smooth wood.

He accepts the cup gladly, swallowing down the hot, black liquid while finally taking the chance to look over his companion. He’s tall, smartly dressed in a pale blue, long sleeved shirt and straight slacks. His hair is light brown, or maybe dirty blond, spiked where he’s been running his hands through it. It takes him a minute to realise that Dean hasn’t sat down; he’s hovering, waiting to be invited to do so.

“Please Dean, sit. You’ve more than earned it.”

Dean gives him this smile, it’s not grateful or cocky, just a knowing look as he descends into the soft cushion. His posture shifts, legs splaying open in a relaxed way that has made the silence around them comfortable.

“So,” Castiel starts, because as lovely as this, he really would like to know how Dean pulled it off and why the director had assumed it was Dean’s indiscretion that lead to him missing his meeting. “I think we can say with some confidence that you’re hired.” Dean’s eyes brighten. “I would first appreciate an explanation, however.”

He nods, looking down.

“Well, you see, my Dad always taught me that more or less, you arrive early to everything.” Dean shakes his head, face contorting with fondness at his own words, “His saying said more stuff about soldiers, but...” He trails off; seeming to remember Castiel is in the room. “I wasn’t planning on coming like 2 hours early, but I get a call from this really disgruntled dude telling me that I’ve fucked up an important meeting.”

Castiel shakes his head. None of this was actually Dean’s fault. He leans forward to listen more intently – not to watch the way Dean’s hands and facial expressions change as he speaks.

“Naturally, I accept some of his more choice words; damn the older generation certainly have more imagination than we give them credit for!” He scoffs, “Anyway, I basically grovelled and apologised for my mistake and he agreed to come back. That’s all ‘cause of you though.” Dean finishes, punctuating the thought with a wink.

“Oh. In that case, thank you Dean.”

He’s not overly sure that the wink was appropriate, but the man is attractive (and a good enough person to bring back a deal that could have walked away, thus saving Castiel from never ending torment); he’s willing to let it slide. Dean shies away from the compliment, turning his head to take in a view of Castiel’s office.

“You must understand I’m not normally this-“

Dean side eyes him, turning his head minutely, “Sloppy? Forgetful, unlucky-“

“Relaxed,” He cuts off before Dean can run through a thesaurus of adjectives, though the playful glint in his eye would suggest he was simply teasing Castiel, not that he really knows how to react to that either. “In the office. Your work will be from your desk out there.” Pointing through the open blinds on his large office windows into the space outside, where the desk of his former employee sits, he allows time for Dean to consider.

He’s always liked where his office is positioned; from the huge panoramic view behind him, looking down on the bright city lights at night and watching the birds fly in the daytime, to the way that you have to navigate across the lobby and down a short hallway to reach it. The secluded place allows for him not to be distracted by the bustle of the rest of the office, while maintaining adequate knowledge on the running of this floor and the people that work here.

“Sounds good to me boss,” Dean says, snapping him out of his reverie. “I’ll see you tomorrow at...”

“7.”

“7 it is.”

He salutes in mock military formality. Castiel isn’t sure how to respond, such, as Gabriel would put it, ‘dorkiness’ has never actually faced him before. Confused and merely assuming it is the correct reaction, he lifts his hand to salute back. Dean laughs, head thrown back, revealing more of his neck and just peaking out where the shirt moves down, a bright flash of colour.

It’s gone as soon as it came, much like Dean.

Castiel goes home not long after. Discarding the paper coffee cup, he locks his office door. Technically, this is more or less his day off – he has short working hours on certain days and is only required to attend meetings on those. He’s walking down the hall, sparing a glance for the desk that will no longer have sharp eyed Heather, but soft, green eyed Dean and wonders, with some amusement, what will their working relationship will be like. Castiel isn’t one for fun and games around the office, although, from the same tint of menace that he sees in his brother all too often, he can tell that his boundaries are going to be tested.


	3. They Don't Get On

The week passes quickly and smoothly.

His office has never been so tidy, everything efficiently sorted and filed. Every email is written concise and yet somehow displaying the aura of charm Dean exhibits. It’s incredibly easy to work with Dean; he is reserved, hard working and does more than what is required of him.

Zachariah comes down in the second week.

For the first time, Castiel discovers the true meaning of the term ‘like two dogs in a cage’.

Outside his office, Castiel hears the start of a ruckus. He is certain, quite so, that that is Zachariah’s voice booming something about the clear conduct rules that the company permits. Wasting no time, he pushes through the door to see Dean, leaned back in the chair with a wide grin on his face, Zachariah stood, threatening to go further into Dean’s personal space.

“Is there a problem?” He asks, taking some satisfaction in the fact that he managed to startle Zachariah.

There is hatred burning in his cold eyes, more so than his normal levels, the steely knives flicking between him and Dean. He raises an eyebrow in further question.

“Your, _disgraceful_ excuse of a secretary,” Zachariah turns his back to Dean, whose eyebrows are raised in amusement. His eyes meet Castiel’s over Zachariah’s shoulder and Castiel frowns at him disapprovingly – which only suffices to make Dean’s face scrunch up, the laughter nearly spilling out, as Cas stops himself from paying attention to his secretary (he scowls at him for added emphasis) and once again turns to Zachariah.

“... Was flirting with the employees; multiple employees.”

He is quite honestly surprised that the man’s eyes haven’t bugged completely out of his head.

Sighing, he shoots Dean a ‘we’re going to talk about this’ look. It’s amazing how comfortable, certain, Dean looks in this job already.

“Zachariah, we are both busy men. I will talk to Dean about his... Actions” – Dean does snort at that, and impressively hides it from Zachariah’s glare with a cough – “Please, let me deal with this.”

With a grumble Zachariah nods at him, shuffling back down the corridor. The moment he is out of earshot, Dean bursts out laughing.

“This isn’t funny Dean.” Cas growls, irritated that his ‘flirting’ has brought about unnecessary attention.

Dean stops laughing and sits up in his chair. The look on his face turns deadly serious.

“All I said was ‘thank you, sweetheart’ and ‘can you get this copied for me, young Padawan’, which, by the way, not flirting.” He rolls his eyes, walking out from behind the desk so that he is eye to eye with Castiel. He’s an inch or so taller, but Castiel matches him in muscle and broadness. “Plus,” He smirks cockily, “ _You_ don’t like him.”

Cas sputters around a rebuttal, not finding the words to express himself however. He stares into green, searching within them to see past the gentle flames of amusement and smug satisfaction. They hold each other’s gaze for what feels like hours until someone clears their throat beside them.

“Uh, Dean? Here’s the papers you wanted.” A young red head, with more relaxed dress than he’s seen on any of the floors he’s ever worked on, holds two sheets of paper in her hand and somehow conveys looking more done than Zachariah. He absently wonders how long she has been standing there and by extension how long _he_ had been standing there.

“Thanks Charlie,” Dean reaches past him, taking the papers and holds his fingers in some sort of salute in return to Charlie’s own.

It must be a pop culture reference, Cas sighs. Dean’s attention returns to him and he smiles.

“Work, Dean.”

“Alright, bossy.”

Castiel turns, on the way back to his office when fingers catch the sleeve of his trenchcoat.

“But first, read this.”

Spitefully, to annoy Dean more than anything – he will have to tell his brother he is almost indulging in that dangerous line of flirting, or in the least, he needs to ask his brother if Dean’s antics could be categorised as flirting – he snatches the letter from his hand and is pleasantly surprised when he finishes reading.

He looks up to say something to Dean, but he’s already returned to his desk; the phone on his ear, as though he hadn’t just handed him the golden ticket with Steven Spielberg. The working relationship they’ve created in the past week, however, makes him move silently back into his office shutting the door with a soft click that rattles the blinds.

Settling into his chair, he takes his glasses off the desk and slides them on. He re-reads the letter twice more, eyes flicking consciously to where Dean is sitting. In the middle of his view though, is a large cup of coffee with a single yellow post-it note on it. He has no idea how Dean managed to get it in here.

_You’re lucky I like you Cas ;)_

***

Zachariah and Dean continue to not get on.

Castiel privately enjoys it every time Dean antagonises him and they have turned him scolding Dean in front of Zachariah into a game. It’s a dangerous game, the element of rebellion making it more exciting to play, because Zachariah would be furious if he found out that Castiel was intentionally mocking him.

He has never worked with someone like Dean before. Nothing is ever normal when it comes to Dean.

Whereas he sticks to the rules, working diligently on blind faith on the names of famous books and films he is handed, Dean does everything on his own terms. He ripped up the rules and yet still works harder and faster than anyone Cas has ever seen around the office.

Dean’s job becomes his own, no personal touches, but the feet up and the hair deliberately spiked; he has even made friends with Charlie, a tech support from another floor, and Cas doesn’t know what goes down between them... He just knows Zachariah won’t like it. Each time he reprimands Dean though, he smiles, green eyes dancing, always searching for something in Cas’ eyes he never seems to find.

The people on the floor love Dean, his charisma is infectious and the threat about flirting has obviously gone unnoticed. While Cas will walk to his office in silence, he knows that Dean will be sitting there waiting for him, as will a hot cup of coffee. Their silences define them, comfortable to say what they need to in a glance or a wave of paper.

Again, Cas is awed by the effectiveness of it.

Summer in California blazes in on the wind. He notes, with surprise and disbelief, that Dean does not change into something less... Warm. Despite Cas never removing his trenchcoat, except inside his office, he is stunned to see Dean everyday in a different colour or pattern long sleeved shirt.

Certain things he notices like how Dean will try –and fail – to inconspicuously un-tuck his shirt and pop his top button, but he has long since stopped telling Dean to dress properly. It seems to be catching too, for after a long meeting Cas finds himself undoing his top button and loosening his tie.

There is also the fact that Dean insists on calling him Cas.

He hasn’t had a nickname he hasn’t minded ever in his life – both of his brothers call him Cassie and he hates it. His previous secretary had referred to him as Boss, or more disturbingly, Commander. He greatly prefers Cas.

Back to the point though, he can’t believe Dean hasn’t spontaneously combusted yet. The long sleeve shirt sticks to his body, and when Castiel finds himself looking, Dean will look up and they will have an intense staring contest; Dean on the phone, arranging some meeting, him in his office, tapping blindly at his keyboard, through the open slats of blinds.


	4. Are We Freinds?

The first months pass like this, the simplicity of it charming in its own way. Dean makes references, similarly to Gabriel, that he doesn’t understand and finds Cas’ ‘obliviousness’ increasingly amusing.

The personal emails between them now contain a range of emoticons. He doesn’t know why he lets Dean indulge in it, the fact that the man has made it his personal mission to ‘get that stick out of your ass Cas’ admirable and not unwelcome, just unexpected. Dean has a way of sorting through his clientele and arranging to have all his less desirable ones at the end of the week, with multiple cups of coffee waiting, while making his favoured people overlap Zachariah’s daily torment.

Castiel is incredibly satisfied with his new secretary, indeed.

However, a conversation they come up against more and more often on a Friday evening is ‘Cas, you gotta lighten up man, come to the bar with me’.

Castiel is not a fan of bars; the drunken people and their disregard of his personal space leads to incidents that he will no doubt be cautioned for.

He stops dwelling on his thoughts as he steps out of his office, two long meetings with another trashy Vampire novel (that no, he is not going to screen write) and a disgruntled ‘every-action-film-you’ve-ever-seen’ script writer.

The word ‘ugh’ describes how he feels with surprising accuracy.

“So Cas, you wanna get a beer with me and the guys?”

For the first time since Dean started asking, he considers his offer.

But no, there’s a soft comfy chair and his favourite stack of books waiting for him at home; he really doesn’t want to socialise with Dean outside of the office for fear that he will over step his boundaries. He likes Dean, in a way more that is more than just a working relationship. They have become friends, unconventionally, and to say that Dean is interesting and funny, constantly making Castiel feel like doing something reckless, something extraordinary, is a very good reason not to get inebriated with him.

“No, thank you Dean.”

He tilts his head in confusion to the look of disappointment that flicks over Dean’s face, he hides it well, and it’s merely a very small down turn of his lips as he looks away. Cas squints, straightening to his full height. It is dangerous to imagine that Dean has feelings for him back – especially when office relationships are prohibited.

Doesn’t mean he can’t admire Dean from inside his office, though.

“Goodnight Dean.”

Dean is still frowning slightly, just at the bridge of his nose, and it takes him a few seconds to reply.

“Night Cas.”


	5. Something's Wrong

Dean returns on Monday morning looking exhausted. His shoulders are slumped; the shirt on his back messily tucked in and the top button is undone. Castiel only notices this because he is not normally in this early - he needed to catch up on the script work for the upcoming Disney movie. Just through the slats of his open blinds, he can see Dean crumple into his chair, the world weighing down on his shoulders.

He honestly considers going out to ask Dean if he is ok, more than once. Cas has often been told he is too forward, on many occasions, and the last thing he wants to do is make Dean uncomfortable. Thinning his lips, Cas watches Dean; the way the man appears to be relieved to find the stacks of paper on his desk and how their customary quick glance at one another doesn’t happen.

After a few solid minutes of staring and not much else, Cas stands from his desk. He makes his way across his office, all the way to the door. The sound of it opening alerts Dean, and in Castiel’s presence he sits up, eyebrows raised in question. Cas walks over to his desk, leaning over into his personal space and goes to speak, to ask Dean if he’s ok and if there’s anything he can do (like take him home and lay him down on his queen sized bed) but Dean beats him to it.

“Your 10 o’clock is here, Cas.”

He deflates. Now that he is closer though, he can run his eyes over the other man properly. He narrows his eyes at the bags that hang under Dean’s tired looking eyes and clicks his tongue as he documents the small line of scruff that Dean missed while shaving. Their eyes meet, and he knows he’s lost. Lost like the time Gabriel took him to the woods, the lush green trees towering over him that faded into dark when Gabe left him there. Lost like the first time he ever read a script, a proper script, the transcript to Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens, that he had to fight 3 bullies to keep safe after his teacher leant it to him.

Oh yes, all else vanishes from his existence in Dean’s green eyes and Castiel finds, completely and wholly, that he doesn’t want to be found.

His 10 o’clock clears her throat.

Pink dusts Dean’s cheeks as he stares down at the paper on his desk. Castiel pulls away, smiling falsely at his client, ushering her into his office.

He looks back at Dean, once more, expecting him not to be looking. Instead, he finds that Dean is staring right back.

***

Dean flops down into his chair. He barely resists the urge to bury his head in his hands. So he went to see his parents this weekend and... And.

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

It was a close to a 23 hour drive there, 23 back, and he was there for maybe 8 hours before he had to go again. Even in her frail state, his Mom had placed her hand on the side of his face, the so gentle touch he can never find himself doing anything other than breaking under her cold palm. She had joked that he could have flown, despite his serious phobia of being 2,000 ft in the air in a steel can. He’d hugged his Dad, who more often than not these days had tears in his eyes. The thought breaks him; John more than anyone is literally watching Mary fade away, the cancerous fire slowly consuming her body.

He’d had to leave, on about 3 hours sleep, kissing his Mom’s forehead and hugging his Dad once more.

Work gives him an ample distraction, something he can throw himself into and forget the whirring of feelings buzzing in his chest. He still needs to call Sammy later; besides a two minute shower, a particularly rushed shave and a change of clothes, Dean hasn’t had the time to do so yet.

His desk is stacked with paper, left here by Zach or the other lackeys no doubt, and he can’t hold back the odd sort of gratefulness that rushes through him. This he can do, Castiel he can help.

He takes the top letter from the pile and he’s moments from scanning through it and opening up his email when he feels Cas’ gaze on him. He looks up. Electricity runs under his skin as Cas’ strides out of his office, eyes roaming over him; he swallows thickly and sits up under the scrutiny. He hadn’t meant for his mood to be that obvious, he’s a master at suppressing his feelings, but everything feels so raw and new, he doesn’t bother bantering about his appearance or about Cas being early. He knows he looks a mess. The latter isn’t unusual, not with all the clients Cas has to balance.

Thankfully, Cas’ client arrives and he alerts the man, if nothing other than to stop him from studying him like a script to fix or an interesting book to read. No one wants to know the real Dean Winchester. Although he hasn’t really stuck around long enough to let anyone try, he thinks, in hindsight.

Cas’ eyes are very blue. Unbelievably blue, in fact, and they draw him, make him want to sit Cas down cross legged on his office floor and just appreciate the millions of stars that swirl in the flecks of his irises. The woman waiting clears her throat. Pulling back, in a motion definitely describable as hesitant, the second Cas’ back turns Dean blows out the breath he’s holding. He should get back to work. He stares down at the piece of paper, eyes scanning the words but not actually taking anything in.

He looks up, to watch the flap of trenchcoat as Cas retreats with the woman to his office. His breath stutters... Cas’ head turns back.

The distraction that is Cas returns to his office and Dean can feel both the relief to get on with work and a burning desire to spend time with Cas. The man never says yes to a drink, to meet up outside of work, _anything_ and Dean has resigned himself to flirting through the cups of coffee and email system. It’s not nearly what he wants, but he can deal. Zach’s heart would probably do a flip if Dean let Cas fuck him or something.

There’s a thought.

Shaking his head, Dean begins typing out the email to the author of ‘Causa Latet, Vis Est Notissima’ because - if he remembers from him and Sammy hitting Bobby’s library and becoming oddly enamoured with Latin correctly – the story line they’ve outlined sounds interesting and he’s 99% certain Cas would really love it too. He’s half way through, checking the calendar to see when Cas is next free, when he hears someone tapping a pen against the glass of his desk.

Zachariah’s white hair appears in his peripheral. Awesome.

He decides to ignore him; he’s tired, feels like shit and has the start of a headache that not even drowning himself in a bottle of something undoubtedly alcoholic will help. Pencilling in for three days time, he types four more words before Zachariah speaks.

“I need to talk to Castiel.” He states, eyes zeroed in on Dean’s hunched form.

“Make an appointment buddy, he’s busy all day.” Dean replies, carrying on typing so that he doesn’t have to make eye contact.

“I said: I need to speak with him. Castiel is my employee and you will make it work, within the next hour.“

He rolls his eyes and sighs.

“I didn’t make the rules, _you_ did. He has clients coming in and out all day.”

He can almost hear the seething glare.

“You listen here-“

“No _you_ listen.” Dean’s not giving a fuck right now, fuck Zachariah, fuck this. “Castiel is my boss. Not you. I answer to him and I definitely don’t take orders from your ponsy ass because you think that your precious bitch session about how bad Cas is at his job, which is utter horse shit, is more important than Cas meeting clients to make you money!”

He’s breathing heavily by the end, standing with such force that his chair bangs against the wall behind him. Distantly, he hears clapping and he laughs, more of a single exhalation, walking out from behind his desk so that he can face Zachariah properly.

“You can leave, anytime now.”

Zachariah tilts his head so that he is sneering down his nose.

“You’ll pay for that, Winchester.”

He treads down the hall, purposefully slow so that Dean knows that he isn’t beat. Dean closes his eyes, remaining standing, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Way too much came out just then, he really needs to get a filter. So Zach isn’t his boss but he can still get him fired and Dean can’t exactly afford that. He chuckles humourlessly at his on pun – he _literally_ cannot afford to lose this job. Anger is still bubbling under the surface of his skin though; he tries to swallow it down. In times like these he’d normally destroy something, how poetically tragic, Dean snorts.

He could do with a drink.

Or to go to the tattoo shop.

Preferably he needs to get out of this long sleeved shirt and just breathe, maybe go for a drive, yeah that sounds good. Would be better with a passenger though, a passenger with blue eyes and brown hair-

A hand on his shoulder startles him.

Right, he’s still at work.

He gives Cas a hollow smile in return for his concerned expression, waving goodbye to the woman who was his client. She smiles politely, her eyes wide and empathetic towards him.

Cas’ hand is still on his shoulder.

It slides off slowly and Dean waits for Cas to say something. To fire him or shout at him or to open his mouth at all would be nice. He deserves it, he knows he was out of line and it’s because of all this personal shit but Dean’s supposed to be stronger than he’s showing. There’s possibly more than one crack in his chassis.

“Dean,” The way he says his name is laced with 100 questions, and a hint of uncertainty that makes Dean’s stomach flop, “Would you like to get a drink with me?”

His head snaps up. Cas must be joking. He’s toying with him, fucking around. The last thing he really wants is a pity drink but at the same time he wants to get to know Cas better. He doesn’t know anything about the man except the fact that he is more or less a Vulcan, doesn’t understand any references – probably doesn’t even know what a Vulcan _is_ – and has a severe disregard for personal space. Not that Dean minds the last one.

“Seriously?”

Cas must take his tone for sarcastic because he looks away. Cas looks nervous. Well pigs might just fly after all, Dean thinks.

“You do not have to, I thought-“

Slapping Cas on the shoulder, he squeezes. “Cas, I’ve been trying to get you to come out with me for months. I’d love to.”

***

 _This is not a date. This is not a date. This is_ not _a date._

Cas calls in a mantra in his head. This is two guys, going to a bar for a casual drink. 100% platonic, even if Dean insists on driving them (he belatedly realises this means Dean will also have to drive him home) in his beautiful black car.

“You have a very nice car.”

The way Dean beams at him then makes him want to fold on his own restrictions, pin him to something and kiss him till he’s begging. Alas, Dean breaks eye contact still grinning, gesturing for Cas to climb in. The leather seats are blissfully cold, from being in the parking lot, and Dean puts the AC on and he’s comfortably saved from the heat of Cali. There’s a classic rock tape playing in the cassette player, a song Cas doesn’t recognise, that he instantly associates with Dean.

It is there, in the chill of Dean’s car, that Cas appreciates that he doesn’t know anything about Dean at all other than he is a very good secretary and is no doubt hiding glorious works of art beneath those shirts. He wants to find out more, to get to know Dean besides stolen glances.

The problem is, he is awkward and he knows it. He has no grasp on the concept of small talk, the last date he went on was with Meg and that was a while ago now.

_This is not a date._

“So Cas, you got any siblings?” Dean asks, pulling out of Celestial Inc and onto the road.

Cas exhales, he can do this.

“Two brothers, yes.”

“Are they both as awesome as you?”

Cas is under the impression that Dean is joking, it doesn’t stop his heart from fluttering anyway. He shoos the feeling away, swallowing, and huffing out an amused breath.

“I do not think so. Gabriel is a notorious trickster and Balthazar has been involved in more orgies than strictly legal.”

Snorting, Dean throws his head back in a laugh. Cas is momentarily worried that he isn’t even watching the road, but the ease at which Dean drives, and the speed, would suggest that Dean is suitably in control.

“They sound like a hell of a party.”

Cas makes a noncommittal sound.

“What about you Dean, do you have any siblings?”

If he thought Dean looked happy when Cas had complemented his car, Dean is bordering ecstatic now.

“Yeah, my little brother Sammy.”

A younger brother, see progress already Castiel and you’re not even at a bar yet. As little as it is that he knows of interaction, family is usually a safe place to start. He notes though, for future reference, that Dean didn’t inquire on his parents – something he is slightly relieved at, and deems to offer Dean the same courtesy.

“How old is he? Both my brother’s are older.”

Cas scowls, remembering how hard it was to be the younger brother to both Gabriel and Balthazar. He was at the brunt of all the pranks and sexual jokes, although he supposes he owes them for making him that much tougher.

“He’s 22,” an expression of sadness creeps up on Dean, “He’s studying pre-law, at Stanford and everything.”

“You are proud of him.”

It’s a statement, a realisation of how high Dean holds his brother.

“Well duh, he’s the freaking genius of the family.”

Dean is smiling but Cas is not. The way Dean so flippantly puts himself down, as though he forgets the great deal of intelligence and difficulty his own job demands.

“You are smart too, Dean.”

He shoots Cas a look but doesn’t say anything. It’s not an agreement, just more silent self loathing. It’s another thing Cas doesn’t understand, he lets the subject drop anyway, listening to the hum of the air conditioning and the riff of a particularly loud guitar.

Pulling up outside a nondescript bar, Dean smiles at him and opens his door. Cas gets out too, carefully shutting the car door in the same way Dean does. He takes care of the car with such reverence, Cas briefly wonders what he is like with people he cares about too; it is obvious to see that his family is very important to him.

“I just gotta make a call,” Dean says as they walk into the bar together, “Go grab us a couple of beers and take a seat.”

Dean nods to himself, or to Cas, he’s undecided, and walks towards the back of the bar. Although not a stranger to the setting, Cas isn’t entirely comfortable with bars – he doesn’t really see the point. If he needs to drink he will go to a liquor store and drink it, simple as. However, social interaction is imperative here and so he goes to the bar and orders two bottles of beer.

The glass is cold against his palm, the droplets of water condensing and dribbling down his hand. He takes a seat, sipping absent-mindedly at his bottle. Dean returns, the shade of sadness that covered his face earlier in the day fading when he makes eye contact. Unlike Cas, Dean takes his bottle and downs a hearty swig, exhaling like he’s a drowning man who’s ingested his first gulps of air again. 

They chat about unimportant things, family, hobbies, books, films. Dean makes references he doesn’t understand and tells him that one day they will have to do a Star Wars marathon. The concept of the film doesn’t appear overly realistic, Dean’s excitement is contagious and he soon finds himself smiling and laughing more than he has in years.

With the initial awkwardness gone, and a few helping beers later, Dean is warm against his side and laughing at nothing in particular. His gaze keeps drifting over to the pool table and mischief suddenly shines in his green eyes.

“You ever hustled pool, Cas?” Dean whispers into his ear.

Neither of them is drunk yet, just happily buzzed but Cas can’t help the shiver that transcends down his spine.

“That’s illegal Dean.”

Dean’s face doesn’t change and Cas gets the feeling that Dean has done lots of things that could be categorised as ‘illegal’.

“I have never played pool before.” He admits carefully, well aware of the way Dean shakes in astonishment.

His eyes sweep over him, a decision is being made that Castiel is not privy to the mind process of and that thought makes him incredibly uncomfortable. Dean grins and nods, pulling Cas by the hand to his feet.

He does not try to commit that feeling to memory.

“Ok, well first lose the coat.”

Cas stares at him dumbly. He is ridiculously fond of his slightly oversized trenchcoat. Rolling his eyes, Dean starts undressing him. Cas swallows hard.

Quickly slipping it on, Dean tugs at the lapels of the trenchcoat, which is too big for him too, and does the ‘how do I look’ motion. Cas’ mouth runs dry. He’s going to have the image wearing his clothing in his mind for days, weeks.

He must see Cas’ fear (or he mistakes his arousal for that, unless he knows) in his face because he nudges his shoulder before walking over there.

“Don’t worry Cas, I’m going to let you win.”

Dean explains rapidly how hustling pool works as they walk over; Cas has to admit to a point that it is very clever. If Dean didn’t also admit to how many times he’s been in a fight when he’s got caught. He doesn’t actually know what it is about Dean that has him agreeing to his schemes, at this point if Dean asked him to rob a bank with him he isn’t overly sure he’d say no.

The gist of the plan – and why Dean wanted Cas’ trenchcoat – is that Dean is going to act like a drunk lightweight, to which Cas is mildly offended that’s what Dean thinks his trenchcoat makes him look like. They play a game on a bet, Dean loses and Cas wins. That draws the other poor punters in, confident that they will win and place a high bet, to inevitably lose.

The rational part of his brain still reminds him of how this is illegal and will most definitely end in trouble.

Dean, despite playing the fool, controls the game with practised ease. Cas is shown how to hold the cue properly and pot the balls; he picks up how to play effortlessly. And if he holds onto the moments when Dean moves around behind him, his free hand sliding across his back, and stands beside him to make another crappy shot, no one has to know.

In accordance with the plan, Cas wins the game and there is a gruff looking man waiting for his turn. He curtly tells Cas to get out of the way, Dean ‘drunkenly’ handing him a handful of bills.

Almost predictably, Dean finds trouble. Having won the game, the man, who looks less than pleased at being swindled out of $300, grabs Dean by the throat and presses him into the wall. Cas moves to haul him off, but Dean manages to escape and in an exhilarating dash, with men on their heels and Dean’s hand in his own, they run from the bar.

Dean is cackling as he scrambles into the front seat and even though Cas is panting, his heart thumping in staccato against his ribs, he finds himself laughing too. At the absurdity of it, or the thrill of the flight, he isn’t sure. Dean slams his foot against the accelerator and the angry faces become clouded by a plume of dust in the rear view mirror. He cranks up the music and rolls down his window, sticking his middle finger up at them even though they’re well out of sight. Cas thinks it is overkill, perhaps, but is still grinning dopily.

“We won’t be returning to that bar in the near future.”

Dean side eyes him, smirk tampered down. “You’re not too pissed are you?”

For a moment of incredulousness, Cas thinks that he probably should be. He is a managerial executive for one of the most competitive companies for states around, he’s worked hours he didn’t have to, typed papers until the words became meaningless letters on the screen, taken orders from people he doesn’t respect. He should be furious, livid, insulted.

He’s not though. He feels alive.

“Nothing is normal about you, Dean. And I am very ok with that.”

Which is delving a little close to the truth, about Dean’s importance to him, and he quietens when he sees the flicker of amusement in Dean’s face morph into something infinitely softer.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Dean.” He murmurs, afraid that if he talks too loudly he’ll break the bubble they’ve created around themselves.

That night sky is dark, stars hidden from view by dank clouds. The flicker of orange passes the window as they fly by the lampposts. It’s strangely serene, comfortable in a way that Castiel does not normal feel in cars. He can imagine this, a road trip, a random late night drive, just him, Dean and the open road.

“You gunna tell me where you live Cas or are we going to drive around all night?”

He considers the latter.

“Take the next right.”

He guides Dean to his house, a thin two story building that is nestled in a pleasant neighbourhood. Dean whistles, lowly, like he hasn’t seen a house before, like he didn’t expect Cas to live in a house at all. Cas wonders where Dean lives, and, more intrinsically, if he will ever find out.

Cutting the engine, he and Dean sit in silence. He can’t help but feel the tension between them rocket, palpable in the quiet of the night.

“So I guess this is you,” Dean says, sleepily. “I want you to know Cas, that I really kind of like you.”

He tilts his head at Dean’s statement, blinking at him as he turns his face, a blush that is barely visible covering his freckled cheeks.

“That is a fairly contradictory statement,” He pauses, “But I ‘really kind of like you’ too.”

Cas does the air quotes with one hand before he reaches out, without thinking, so that he is cupping Dean’s face. Dean leans into the heat of his palm instantly, as though he is craving the touch. Shyly, Dean bites his bottom lip. Gone is the cocky, brash Dean Winchester and Cas is left with a sweet, nervous man. It is endearing, really.

Dean leans forward, into the passenger side of the car, Cas’ hand following him there. Cas closes his eyes, taking in the smell of the dwindling summer heat, along with the leather of the car and the faintly alcoholic breaths he can feel against his lips.

“Dean,” He exhales, opening his eyes to glazed green, “We shouldn’t.”

Dean smiles sadly.

“I know.” He whispers, pressing their lips together in what is probably the most chaste kiss Castiel has received since he was a boy, which lingers and tingles all the way through him. Dean pulls away, reluctantly, and waves sardonically.

Cas rolls his eyes and opens the door. He leans in through his open window, to keep as close to Dean as possible, to grip onto this night, this feeling, for as long as he can.

“See you tomorrow, Dean.”

“Sweet dreams, Cas.”


	6. -The Night of the Not Date-

It isn’t until he has closed the front door behind him and promptly collapsed against it that he realises that Dean still has his trenchcoat on. Cas curses at the thought; the incredibly hot thought. He licks his lips, deciding on a cold shower and then bed.

He showers quickly and lies in bed, flicking his tongue out one last time. Falling into a dreamless sleep, Cas rides the high of Dean’s lips against his own all night.

His phone rings. Cas leans over, frowning as the far too bright screen lights up his room. He checks the time, 3:17 am (why is anyone calling him this early) and then looks at the caller ID. He swallows.

“Zachariah?” His voice is gruff from sleep; he doesn’t try to hide the disdain at being woken.

“Castiel, my favourite employee. I have some out of state work for you, big client and all. I’m trusting you Castiel to keep this man on board and make him happy. Everything will be provided for you on the plane.”

‘Plane’ is the only word he registered from that whole sentence.

“Where am I going?”

“New York.”

“New York.” Cas repeats to himself quietly, rubbing his palm against his forehead. He has no aspiration to go all the way to the other side of the country.

“How long for?”

“Only a few days, to iron out the kinks. All the good stuff I know you can take care of.” Zachariah pauses, while Cas almost falls asleep against his palm. “A valet will be there in 20 minutes to take you to the airport.”

He hangs up before Cas can growl a reply. Falling back against the mattress, Cas rolls his neck and yawns. He doesn’t want to go to New York. He also has no way of contacting Dean – he doesn’t know where he lives and doesn’t have his number – to explain his absence in person and get his trenchcoat back. Cas sighs.

He pushes himself up, out of bed, and begins to pack.

When he steps out of his house, climbing into the open car door, and once again watches the world fly past his window, he can’t help but loathe Zachariah for sending him out there... Away from his office and away from Dean.


	7. Excited For Work

Dean drives to the office, faster than he will admit, with excitement and a hint of doubt running in his mind. What if Cas regretted it? What if Cas fires him for coming on to him, even if he had kissed back?

He doesn’t even know if Cas is into dudes.

Pulling into the parking lot, Dean shuts those thoughts off with the ignition. He’s going to play it cool, try and gauge Cas’ mood before he does anything. He hadn’t brought Cas’ coat with him (the coat he not so innocently ‘forgot’ to return when he dropped Cas off last night) because he thought that would probably look weird. And now he has an excuse to come by Cas’ house later and drop it off.

Two coffees in hand, he clumsily presses the button in the elevator. It’s early, for him not so much, and there’s only one other person in the lift with him. Reaching Charlie’s floor, the door pings and Dean steps out. He crosses the room to her desk, knowing that her and Ash barely sleep let alone leave the building.

She looks up at him, face lit up in a wide smile, removing her headphones in the traditional sign that it is safe to converse. He opens his messenger bag, grinning, to take out three boxsets.

Two of them are his; he’s not so subtly getting Charlie into Doctor Sexy although she likes it more for the women in nurse outfits. The third is the latest Game of Thrones that she had lent him.

“That Joffrey sure is a dick.”

She ‘mhmm’s’ in reply, her hand half reaching out to him but coming to a holt as her screen captivates her attention again.

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Whatever you’re doing don’t get caught, ok?”

She doesn’t answer this time, too absorbed by the streams of data bytes on her monitor.

Raising his hand in the air, Ash says hello/goodbye in true Breakfast Club form. Dean shakes his head fondly, taking his coffee and returning to the lift.

His quietly optimistic mood grinds to a halt when he reaches his desk. There’s a woman sitting in his chair, dramatically turning to face him.

He inwardly groans, what is it about management and their need to make an entrance?

Naomi stares at him expectantly – she’s from human resources, adding to the confusion that has replaced his happiness – watching as he places his two cups of coffee on the top of the glass. He leans against it, not at all playing into her game, content to watch her until she folds.

“You’ll only need one of those.” She gestures coldly to the coffee. “He’s in New York, dealing with a client.”

He likes having Naomi around about as much as he likes having Zachariah here. Though, the fact that it is Naomi and not the old wind bag is definitely being counted as a win. Her words suddenly filter through the haze and he blinks in response. She’s wasting his time by avoiding the real purpose of her visit.

“Stop being coy and get on with it.” He snaps, unnerved by her unwavering expression. If he uses anger to replace the annoyance at Castiel being sent away, no one has to know.

“You need to understand something,” Casually, she checks her nails and stands from his chair, “You are by no means special. But Castiel _is_.” She pauses, emphasising the ‘is’ with a tut, her eyes scanning him disapprovingly, “I have no doubt that your assistance has benefited us greatly, however I strongly suggest you desist from pursuing Castiel.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” The abrupt words are out before he can stop them, her jaw ticks angrily in response.

“You like him.” She states simply. “You are hoping that he returns your affections.”

He does like Castiel. In the same way he does Star Wars, Doctor Sexy, pecan pie. He accepted that he liked Castiel more than all of those things a while ago, but he has come to terms with _himself_ long before that. Even if their relationship, due to their roles, was permitted, he would try to graciously hold himself back. Castiel deserves so much more than Dean can give, more than Dean actually is. He can’t be that for him, can’t drag him into the fire that taints everything Dean touches.

He doesn’t tell Naomi that; he might convince her easier if he admitted how broken he is.

Becoming the picture of irritation, Dean acts indifferent. “Last time I checked, going out for a drink with a friend wasn’t against the rules.”

He doesn’t stress ‘friend’, nevertheless he can see from her face that she picks up on it.

“Keep it that way,” She leans forward, patting his cheek in spite of his flinch away, “Remember that you are entirely disposable and replaceable.”

He grumbles something in reply, the click of her heels absurdly loud on the carpeted floor. It’s like everyone down in HR is a bitch. He falls into his chair, swivelling round to face the monitor and piles of paper.

Dean sets to work, rescheduling all of Cas’ clients so that they don’t overlap and turn up without the man himself being present. He makes sure that he stays busy; calling people and writing emails and studiously avoiding the little voice in his head that keeps telling him to look up and see Cas’ eyes through the blinds. He can’t do it. Something’s missing and it’s 6ft with perpetually messy hair and stunning blue eyes...

It’s like a dull ache working, wanting nothing more than to make eye contact with his boss and make him smile. Cas doesn’t smile enough.

He has a really nice smile too; it crinkles his eyes and scrunches up his nose.

In spite of everything, he finds himself peaking over the edge of his desk to Cas’ office opposite. It is, obviously, empty. He taps his pen against the paper, his mind running on overdrive.

For all that Cas stares, when you actually talk to him he always seems so distracted. He’ll look away, to the heavens, glance back and occasionally continue to maintain eye contact. Dean’s learning that even if he does this, he is still interested and is actually listening. He’s an asshole. A complete asshole, who is literal and blunt. He doesn’t understand personal space, or references or human interaction and he’s infuriating!

So why can Dean feel the soppy grin on his face just thinking about him?

Why can’t he stop thinking about Cas and do his damn job?!

Sighing, Dean scrubs a hand round his chin. It’s a good thing his friend Jack never gets sent on out of town business trips for having a drink with his colleague Jim. He chuckles at his own pitiful joke.

Later that day, he closes down his computer and snags his jacket from the back of his chair. He walks leisurely down the hall, priding himself on not looking back.

At the shop it is easier, the customer service and intense concentration it requires leaving your mark on someone’s skin keeps him on task. He’s had to do a lot of dot work, a woman asked for the entire of her arm to be completed in this style. By the time he’s to the end of her bicep, circles whirring around her elbow, there’s a crick in his shoulder and cramp in his neck. It’s worth it though, when she schedules to come back in a few weeks and he hands her the aftercare pamphlet. He’ll admit, he’s got a damn steady hand and it’s going to look great.

It continues as such for a day. Pathetically, he has found himself sneaking fleeting looks at Cas’ tan trenchcoat, which is neatly folded across the back of his sofa. He imagines it smells like Cas – bordering on creepy with that thought – and if anything right now, what with Zach at work and Mom, and Sammy being all stressed about lawery stuff, he could do with Cas being there. Cas who is a constant, strong and dependable.

Wednesday evening, he crumbles.

He slams the door to his flat, peeling the shirt from his body. The cool air of his apartment hits him and he savours it. The flashes of colour stand out against his pale walls and he looks down at himself, balling his shirt in the other hand.

A lot of the scars are covered, hidden beneath the intricate lines of black and red. There are still parts where it is noticeable though, where the pink discolouration and unevenness sticks out. His favourite is the cassette tape on his elbow, the strands of it leaking out and the first notes of ‘Hey Jude’ on its bars. His hand trails down the other side, down his ribs and over the skull and sigils exploding in black and dark blue down his skin. He sighs, throwing his shirt in the direction of the hamper and dropping onto the sofa. His eyelids slip shut; trying to blank out thinking, to focus on the pigments of his skin. He opens his eyes and looks to the left.

Cas’ trenchcoat stares back at him.

He licks his lips, hand reaching out and then pulling away. Standing swiftly, he shucks out of his slacks and chucks them towards his shirt. His hand grasps at the soft material of the coat, slipping the fabric over his arms and curling himself inside it. It’s too big for him - it’s too big for Cas - it smells like Cas and Dean is wrapped in an unwavering safety blanket. This feels intimate, protected, as though Cas is covering his scars, keeping his tattoos a secret.

Dean backs up to the sofa, sitting down on the edge. He would be crossing a line if he... He could touch himself, like this, with the smell and feel of Cas all over him. His dick twitches in interest; this is probably the closest he’s going to get to Cas touching him.

He palms himself slowly through his boxers. He’s going to draw this out until he’s shaking, until he’s pushed to desperation by the thought of Cas’ all over him. He gasps at the notion, pulling his boxers down in one smooth motion to free his dick. Now his ass is against the fabric and his hand is sliding up and down his shaft, thumb swiping over the head, and a pleased sound falls from his lips.

Biting his lip, he reaches under the couch (praising himself for his overactive sex drive and need to stash lube in random places) and pops the cap of the small bottle. He shifts so that he’s not sitting on Cas’ coat, but it’s pooled around him. He doesn’t really want to explain weird stains, unless Cas would let him come over his coat and-

It’s going to be over embarrassingly quick if he continues like this. Dean coats his fingers in a generous amount of lube and reaches round to press the first finger into his hole. He groans at the burn and stretch, combined with his other hand on his dick, shooting pleasure through him. He keeps going; rocking back against his fingers until his has three inside. It feels so good, and that’s saying something when he thinks how long it’s been since he’s even considered having anything up his ass. He hisses when his fingers hit his prostate and he pushes his hips into his fist, thrusting a few times, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the walls of his apartment.

Dean twists his fist and crooks his fingers, body jerking beneath the tan trenchcoat as he comes.

He lays there, basking in the smell of sweat and Cas, his cum pooled on his belly, post orgasm bliss turning his bones to lead. Eventually, he coaxes himself out of the coat, laying it back on the sofa and shuffles off to have a shower.

The weather changes over the next couple of days. The air grows cooler and rain hounds down on the streets, constant background noise to city life. Dean’s evening’s pass in relatively the same way: go to the office, then the tattoo parlour, wallow in self loathing and jerk off wearing Cas’ coat.

He’s pitiable.

It’s Friday before he knows it and he’s standing over his stove, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, shovelling yesterday’s pizza into his mouth. Lisa had invited him out, for drinks, that would no doubt have ended in sex because she’s a babe and he needs to stop pining, but life had other plans. He got a call out to the parlour; a person was willing to pay double to have Dean do the tattoo on his arm. With the rent coming up and his pay check from the office not for another few weeks, he jumped at the chance.

So now he’s eating his cold pizza, his arm aches and he’s spending the night alone. Awesome.

Going to the office sucks because there’s no one to tease or flirt with – besides Lisa and a few of the women there of course. The problem is, that his libido is finding that they’re all seriously lacking in stubble, blue eyes and a rough voice.

His phone rings from the other room. He stuffs the last end of the slice in and strolls over to the sofa.

“Dean!” Charlie squawks, talking over him excitedly. “Guess who’s back!”

“Slim Shady?” He replies rolling his eyes and dropping onto the not so soft cushion.

“No, silly. But wait, did you make a music reference of this century? I’m proud of you dude.”

“I’m not that bad,” he replies defensively.

“Suuuure. Anyway it’s your boyfriend.”

He scoffs, “I don’t have a friggin’ boyfriend Charlie.”

“Um, does Castiel ring a bell?”

Dean blinks, trying to hold in the happiness that his boring office days are over and that he really wants to see Cas right now. Which is ridiculous. In his new Cas-is-back-haze, he forgets to even correct her on teasing him _again_ about his crush on Cas.

“Hang on, how do you know?”

“I have the camera feeds linked to my computer,” He can imagine her nonchalant shrug; “He breezed in and left like he was on a mission.”

He swallows.

“Thanks Char.”

He drops the phone onto the sofa beside him, wiping the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. Why would Cas go back to the office? It’s late, he’s likely just got off his flight and there is no reason for him to go there until tomorrow.


	8. After School Special

He zones out for an indeterminate amount of time, thinking too much as per usual. A knock on his door startles him and he curses, scrambling to find something to wear. He finds a discarded pair of jeans and a t-shirt, throwing both on and stumbles over to the door. Really, who the hell would be visiting him now? Sammy would have called, Benny would shout, his other neighbours don’t give a damn.

Swinging open the door, he nearly chokes on his customary ‘what do you want’ because Cas is leaning in the doorframe. Cas. Here. Outside his dingy flat, his hair an untamed mess plastered to his head and the bags heavy under his eyes.

“Hello Dean.”

“Cas,” He breathes, remembering that that is something he actually needs to do. His suit and shirt is soaked, the little droplets of rain chasing down his flushed cheeks.

“Uh, you wanna come in?” It’s a question; he’s not entirely sure why Cas is here, or what to do with the toned body he can _see_ beneath the single layer of his shirt, in fact he barely manages the function of moving out of the way to let Cas in.

“Yes, thank you.”

Cas shuffles in awkwardly and Dean takes his time shutting the door. He turns slowly to face Cas whose eyes take quick stock of his flat. Dean cringes. It’s a mess, he knows it is. There’s last week’s pizza box on the coffee table, last night’s bottles of beer on the floor. At least three levels of dust cling to every surface, more of an added chapter on the books, all because, in seriousness, he doesn’t usually tidy unless Sammy’s coming round; his bedroom is in perfect order, not that that helps him at all with Castiel in his flat. Nope.

So he can’t afford a swanky little house and his furniture is minimalistic at best, Cas’ eyes seem to zero in on his neatly folded trenchcoat on the sofa.

“Dean,” He starts, and stops, “I confess that I am not entirely sure why I am here.”

Dean chuckles, tension wringing low in his gut.

Cas’ nose scrunches up, eyes avoiding his own. He watches the other man’s chest inhale deeply, and then Cas seems to crumple with the force of exhaling.

“I wanted to see you.”

Cas chooses the worst time to reinitiate eye contact. They fall into silence. He wanted to see him. Castiel – hardass number 1, who stares too much and smiles too little – his _boss_ came all the way across town just to see him? What the hell. No, seriously, what the hell?! Thunder claps outside his window, breaking them from their separate thoughts.

Thinking that it would probably be more eloquent to answer the man who, thanks to the mop of drenched hair on his head, his still wet hands hung limply by his sides and eyes down and puppy like, has made him feel like crap. He’s just staring, willing the sexy image in front of him, the soppy thoughts, everything away in his mind. He shoves it all into a neat box, locks it, and throws it into the darkest chasm in his head.

All that, and he still has to physically shake himself to stop staring. “Look man, you’re obviously beat. Grab a shower, have some pizza, you can sleep here tonight.”

Cas’ eyes go wide, his uncomfortable hovering suddenly more like a bird ready to take immediate flight.

“Only if you want! I uh... It’s good to see you too.” He rushes out, fuck, why does he have some weird verbal cock up when Cas is around?

Cas’ expression softens, though he still appears to be acutely on edge.

“I would greatly appreciate your hospitality, if it does not inconvenience you.”

Snorting, Dean waves a hand at him as an indication to follow. He walks through the short hallway to his bed room, stopping half way to open the door to the bathroom and turn on the light.

“What did you do, walk here? You’re soaked.” He swallows around his words, the feeling of practically emitted mixtures of cool wetness and body warmth circulating behind him.

“The weather conditions are appalling.” Cas answers, deadpan, not moving away.

Tersely smiling over his shoulder at his still very wet, very adorable, head-tilted friend, Dean manoeuvres around him to go to his room. Once there, he digs through his draws to find something that would fit Cas. He’s as muscular - thank sweet baby Jesus for whatever Cas does to have a body like _that_ and his legs, don’t get him started - and almost as broad, just a little shorter. He ends up finding a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms, one of his newer pairs of boxers (that are not embarrassingly covered in Batman print) and a faded band tee that he had frankly forgotten existed.

Cas is standing in the doorway of the bathroom, not crossing the threshold, waiting for Dean. He also fishes out a towel, sorting the garments in a not so tidy pile before thrusting them unceremoniously into Cas’ hands.

“Left’s hot, right’s cold, you have to jig it a bit and wait a few seconds unless you want to freeze your ass off.”

Cas nods seriously, his face heavy and eyes tired.

“I’ll warm up some pizza and you can hit the hay.”

“Thank you Dean.”

Shrugging noncommittally, Dean wanders back to the kitchen and braces himself against the counter. What was he thinking? Cas is going to shower in _his_ bathroom, emerge all wet and gorgeous wearing _his_ clothes and go to sleep in _his_ bed. This is a boner-logical nightmare. He can’t help but laugh quietly at his pun.

He remembers his original mission directive in the kitchen and tumbles the last slices of pizza onto a plate, hitting the button to start the microwave. At the way this is going, Dean’s going to need a coffee or something too, because with Cas in his bed, he’s going to have to take ol’ lumpy – his affectionately nicknamed couch – and lumpy has a nasty habit (that his bed seems to have picked up on) of bringing back bad memories. Specifically, long nights on a twin sized mattress with mystery stains and either a John he has done well to forget, or how trouble has its own way of finding him. With said memories usually comes lack of sleep, and the dreams and the nightmares, so maybe it would be easier to resign himself to caffeine induced alertness.

“Dean?” Cas’ voice rumbles through his bones, a crack of lightening to his system.

He spins, “Oh, hey Cas. Let me take that.”

He reaches for Cas’ wet stuff and, after a moment of flailing, dumps it in his washing machine. He’s not going to tell Cas that it doesn’t work and that he will, in fact, take it down to the laundromat up the road sooner or later. It’s only then that he realises that the concern that had been silently underlining Cas getting his attention is because the microwave had stopped and he must have stared on oblivious to the customary bleeping.

Dean can’t bring himself to look at Cas, clean and warm and wearing his clothes. Handing him the plate, with a cloth for the hotness, he smiles reassuringly then thinks better of it, makes a face and goes back to leaning against the hard surface. Cas does the same, either unaware of Dean’s prominent blush or decent enough to ignore it.

The pornographic noise he makes when he ingests the first slice of hot cheesy dough is not exactly working in Dean’s favour.

“I prefer burgers,” Cas mumbles around a mouthful, his legs casually crossed and looking as much at home strewn against his counter as Sammy does, “But this is very good.”

Now, he knows for a fact that it isn’t _that_ good pizza, which brings him to wonder what the hell Cas was doing and why he hadn’t eaten on the plane or something.

_I wanted to see you_

Fuck. Dean doesn’t know what to do with that. He fiddles with his hands, fingers dancing over the wisps of colour and design. He circles the ring on his finger, Mom’s, watching it lap around. The clink of a plate and warm fingers wrapping around his wrist startles him for what feels like one time too many that evening.

“If my presence makes you uncomfortable, I can leave.” Cas says, earnestly.

Cas’ hand is warm, palm clasped over his pumping veins. This is the Cas that the assholes at work don’t bother to get to know; he hides to well underneath awkwardness and an odd way of being and speaking. It’s a rare glimpse of emotion, in the fraction of a smile and a glint in his too blue eyes.

“I’m good Cas, really.” He smiles, genuine for Cas’ too big heart, “Let’s get you to bed.”

Cas dutifully drops his hand, stepping back to allow Dean to pass.

“I’ll uh, be on the couch. Alarms set and everything,” He stands in the doorway, sashaying through this unknown territory with very little finesse. “Breakfast is served at 6!”

Cas goes to say something and stops. He rolls his eyes instead, looking up jokingly to the heavens – in a way that is strangely akin to Sammy.

He perches on the edge of Dean’s bed gingerly, afraid to disrupt the mess of covers and pillows. Gratitude written all over his face, Cas’ stiff posture decomposes and he collapses.

“Goodnight Dean.”

Dean doesn’t leave straight away. He watches Cas like a total creeper. The minute shifts of the blanket where Cas breathes and gentle exhales soon fill the room.

“Night Cas.”

Ultimately succumbing to the exhaustion in his own weary bones, he strips the jeans off and lands on the sofa. He groans when he realises he didn’t get a blanket of any kind, not that he has any spare blankets, so he half dazedly wanders to the chair where he throws the majority of his jackets and picks the biggest one.

He settles back onto the cushion, the worn leather covering his torso. The sofa stubbornly remains bumpy, scratchy and rough against the skin on his legs. You find, however, after a certain point, that even the least willing will be drawn under.

 

Smoke. Screaming, the clawing of accusative words and trials and physical scarring racks his brain and clouds his mind. He can’t distinguish the voices anymore; it’s all a blur of hate and slurred apologies.

He failed.

And it had cost.

Blue. It’s unmistakable, a shade of blue that puts out the fire in his heart and lets the air rush back into his lungs. There are arms around him, maybe, did he wake up? Oh, he’s not alone, which makes sense to hear a noise from somewhere in his flat.

He sits up. The sofa all but groans beneath him, beads of sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades.

“Dean?”

He blinks his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms hard into his eyes. The rackety beat of his heart is pounding in his ears, the back of his throat dry and hoarse.

Cas is muttering something to him.

“This bed is big enough for two.” There’s a pause, punctuated by Dean’s harsh pants, “And I can’t sleep with you screaming.”

A very brief moment passes when Dean wants to call him on being an insensitive asshole, a fucking droid that has zero empathy what so ever. Then he realises. Cas is giving him privacy. His manhood. Or whatever. He’s actively giving Dean an out, not pushing the boundaries that are torn and frayed in Dean’s mind and for that thought alone Dean wants to run into that bed and kiss Cas senseless. He even managed to incorporate some poorly timed humour.

He debates, shortly, and eventually caves. He craves some companionship, the closeness, the warm feeling of another amiable body pressed against his. He hasn’t felt that for so long the speed at which his mind makes the decision should probably start alarm bells ringing. It will most definitely be awkward when they wake up, he’ll regret showing his weakness. Dean has no doubt that Cas intends to provide no kind of pitying comfort. Still, a bed with Cas is better than lumpy.

He throws off the jacket, landing with a solid thump against the hard floor. Stumbling uncertainly down the hall, he pauses in the doorway. A very sleepy Cas, with hair poking in every direction, is sitting up. His eyes are tired, dreary, but the concern is blinding from where he’s sat. Dean doesn’t have the time to be self conscious, to have so much of his skin on show right now.

Dean crawls into his bed, laying stock still as far on the opposite side from Cas as he can. He hears Cas huff, then drop back against the pillow. The breath he’s been holding is squeezed out of him by warm arms wrapping around his chest. Yup, this is going to be awkward as fuck. He freezes, Cas simply exhales like this is totally normal for a boss and his secretary -who may have kissed once - to do.

Sleep takes him back, drags him into the ambiguity of unconsciousness. Though this time, he has a solid line of protection, around him, behind him, nuzzling the side of his temple. He’s damn indebted when the clawing nightmare is held at bay for the remainder of the night.

***

Cas is not, so much, a morning person. He likes his work, he enjoys running, but that initial drag from ‘I was having a very pleasant dream’ to ‘I have to be presentable for work’ is not particularly enthralling. It is in that groggy state that his mind replays last night and, oh, he’s in Dean’s bed.

He distinctly remembers being wrapped up in man, waking up a few times as if to consciously check that he was alright – safely tucked and entangled in all the crooks of his body he didn’t know existed to have someone fit in. In this time he considered what Dean had been dreaming about, how often these dreams occur, if Dean is accustomed to screaming himself awake and doing so alone. How starved of touch, of a friendly hand, can he be that he doesn’t give a snarky retort and merely climbs into bed with his boss?

There’s also a distinct reminder of muscular legs, inked and perfect, stumbling in a blur to the room.

He reaches out, mostly because his eyes are closed and that solid line of skin and warmth has moved away. The bed beside him is cold. Somewhere in his awareness, the smell of bacon wafts up his nose.

The promise of breakfast had, he presumed, been a joke; his stomach growls and agrees loudly that he is more than on board with the idea of food. He may have put off the in flight meal, not due to nerves, but in distraction. Dashing to the office to pull up Dean’s file and find out his address had been rash, though had not ended unsatisfactorily. His stomach growls again and he sits up, back cracking from the hard mattress. He can only half believe Dean lives and sleeps in this tiny space.

Dean’s clothing is slightly too big, but is soft and cosy in the way that old clothes always are. The trackies are warm, hanging low off his hips. The band tee, another name he doesn’t recognise, worn and comforting against his skin.

He takes stock of Dean’s room; it’s almost as impersonal as the rest of Dean’s flat. There are two pictures, in frames, his family, Cas supposes. The room is neat, tidy and in the light that flickers through the curtains, he finally sees what had been casting a weird shadow over him all night actually is. A gun, rifle, poised on the wall. He thinks about Dean, how little and yet how much he knows about him, and, sliding out of Dean’s bed, he rubs his eyes. Military background, perhaps?

Making his approach down the hall, Cas wonders whether Dean will be clothed or not. His tattoos are curious, always hidden, and he has a piped intrigue into things that are different. Things like Dean.

Alas, he staggers into the kitchen to find Dean, singing quietly, and his clothing from last night obviously dry and clean folded over the back of the sofa. There aren’t any clocks on the walls so he can only presume that, since the alarm did not wake him, it is before 6... Dean has been up for a while.

“ _And she’s buying the stairway to heaven._ ” Dean sings, flipping the bacon strips in the pan. The accompanying sizzle has no tune, but Dean sways his hips, leaning over the counter anyway, humming along.

“Morning Dean.”

Dean very nearly flips a piece of bacon over his shoulder in surprise. Chuckling Cas leans back, running his eyes over Dean again, disappointed Dean has adorned his shirt and slacks already.

“Cas! You scared the shit outta me.” He breathes deeply, sending him a half hearted glare. “I hope you like bacon.”

He can feel himself smiling, the domesticity of the situation and playful banter so similar to their working environment. He loves it. It feels right. They sit across from each other, on either side of the breakfast bar, eating their bacon and eggs, talking quietly. He had feared that Dean would wake up with regret, awkward not-feelings coming between them but the fact is... It’s not.

Dean drives them to work, educating Cas on ‘proper music’ and he smiles along because he’s happy; it’s a troubling emotion to have rattling in his chest.


	9. Team Building (Is Hell)

The next week at work can be mildly described as hell.

Well, this is a different kind of torture. There’s a big, like the next ‘thing’, deal going down and everyone in the office is headless chickening their way through the week. Dean’s head doesn’t agree with the chaos and he is glad that Cas’ office is more or less secluded. He’s had to cooperate with the other members on his floor; him and Lisa get on great, Garth’s a bit of a dork – who greets everyone with a hug and had to be kept busy the first day the man in question had shown up – and then there’s the supervisor, Met.

Literally, his name is Meta- something. He had joked to Sam that he sounds like a Transformer. Sam told him to stop calling him at work.

The office is insanely busy all day. He’s back and forth from his desk mostly; Cas is typing or talking to the client, so in a way he’s appreciative that there hasn’t been time for it to be awkward. It should be, his mind probes at him in the lull of a phone call or email to write. He always gets a ‘Hello Dean’ in the morning. The client has caused a shift in their schedules too... Early mornings and late nights mean he has to cut down his time at the shop on one hand, and gets to spend more time in the general vicinity of Cas in the other.

The anarchy that has erupted in his life doesn’t switch off at home.

Dean can’t stop thinking about that night. Of Cas, tangled in his sheets, wearing his clothes. There are times when he enjoys cuddling. Although, he is more often the big spoon. It is very different being enveloped in someone else’s embrace. He doesn’t mind it. He may have neglected to change his bed or do the laundry that Cas had left. What? Work has been hectic.

At night, he buries his face in the pillow that still has faint traces of what smells like his ordinary shampoo but is tinted with something uniquely man. Cas smell, in his bed. He imagines Cas pinning him down, or to a wall, or with his legs wrapped around that gorgeous tanned body as Cas holds him up. He swallows. He may have more than just a ‘thing’ for Cas. It’s probably nothing more than sexual tension, right? I mean, he hasn’t got a lay in... When did he start working for Celestial Inc?

This is all Cas’ fault.

His predicament only gets more frustrating when he returns from visiting his Mom that weekend.

Naturally, the woman is like physic or some shit, she knew something was up with him. Mary’s health is rapidly deteriorating, so he has to make the most of the better days. He had wheeled her wheelchair through the gardens in the back of the house; the ones Dean had helped to plant some 20 years ago. The sun filtered through their apple tree, the same tree they planted the first time he got pushed over as a kid, and he put the brakes on there, keeping her in the shade and collapsing by her feet.

“What’s wrong sweetie?” Her frail hand reached out, fingers carding softly through his hair.

“I think... I think I _like_ a guy Mom.” He had admitted, as much to himself as to her.

“And you look like Sam’s poked holes in your pie because...?”

He scowled at that. If Mom couldn’t make a pie, their neighbour Missouri always would. Sam’s terrible twos really were terrible. He was a monster, trapped in a teething body. There was a pie waiting for him on the table, one that he had helped Mrs Mosely make, and it had great big puncture marks on its flawless pastry surface.

He’s mad because he doesn’t get to keep nice things, or good things, or _things_ in general. He can’t allow himself to get attached, not to Cas.

A chuckle from above him breaks him from his memory.

“I can almost hear you remembering it,” She sighs, eyes shining as they meet, “You have to follow your heart. You don’t want to leave it too lat-“ Choking cuts off the rest of her sentence, a wracking cough that has Dean on his feet and supporting her emaciated frame in seconds. Once the heaving patters off, he pulls the oxygen mask strapped to her chair and ensures that it’s secure before his hands stop gripping the plastic arm.

The coughing subsides, but she breathes in the oxygen unevenly still. Her eyes are sad. Dean knows their expressions mirror one another.

So he gets back to work on Monday, an itch under his skin that the office vibe can’t scratch. He needs to have the buzz of the tattoo gun beneath his hand and the crackle of the only rock station there is in his ears. What he definitely does _not_ need is a team activity, group meetings, where the departments are paired up to merge a team building exercise with trying to complete one of their more difficult jobs.

Cas’ face is about as amused as he feels and, as the first two people to the meeting, he falls into the chair next to his boss. It’s like a right hand man thing, instinctual. They haven’t spoken properly yet and it doesn’t look as though they will start now. Just as Dean’s about to break the silence and offer to get themselves some well needed coffee (because let’s face it, the only person with bigger bags than Dean and more shit resting on his shoulders is Cas) when their useless compadres start filing in. He shoots Cas a look, only to find him already staring right back.

He gulps, turning his head to Zachariah to pretend he’s listening to the briefing, all the while focussing on the brush of Cas’ fingertips he feels a grand total of once through the shirt on his arm.

They get split into teams – he has never been more grateful for Ash and Charlie, Lisa and Garth, in that moment. He’s glad he made the effort, in his time there, taking Sam’s advice to actually make friends. Of course, him and Charlie had become close, bonding over nerd things, and he knows Ash from his bar stints when he first moved here. It’s nice not to be thrust totally into a new group, there are some faces he doesn’t really recognise, but he’s not least as in discomfort as he can see from Cas’ horrified face across from him.

Why he has to take part, merely being a secretary, is still some team building bullshit.

So anyway, he and the techies are in charge of getting the book cover either drawn, in which case they need to source an artist, or photographed, where they will instead require a photographer. He runs a hand through his hair, because that’s not so bad, glancing over the table to see Cas frowning at the people around him.

“Come on Dean, we might as well get on this,” Lisa tugs on his arm and he nods, absently, letting her lead him away with Ash swaggering on his heels.

The first few days is design ideas; it’s a sci-fi novel, something he can actually put some input towards, so they decide that having an awesome artist depict a scene from the first chapters will have the best impact.

They pitch the idea to Zach and the rest of the groups, who seem to be satisfied, only to be dismissed at the end. From the look on Zach’s face, it’s more to spite Dean than anything; he instantly feels bad for his team because it’s not that their idea was bad, it’s that Zach’s an asshole who holds a grudge. Who knew?

Both he and Charlie try to deviate away from the photographer idea, not that it would make a bad cover for the book, but the protagonist of the story is _female_ and they both know how females end up being portrayed in the media. It will likely end in scanty clothing that would not help in a futuristic setting in the slightest.

“I think we should go for it anyway, screw that Zasshat,” Ash claims, drinking from something that suspiciously smells like a beer.

Dean could definitely go for a few rounds.

“It would have to be under the budget though, in case we have to pull a different cover out our asses,” Lisa sighs, watching Charlie type on the computer intently.

Garth claims to know an artist, an old friend, who could whip something up for way less commission than they were budgeted and guarantee them a good job. They look at each other, assessing their own reactions to the news. With a shrug, the unanimous decision to ‘go for it’ is made. Dean hopes to hell Garth knows what he’s doing.

Week one ends, leading him and Garth to the weirdest outback shack at the edge of the city, while the girls and Ash keep their options open. Garth’s guy – Steve, no last name – had been really enthusiastic about the job, saying he’d get right on it. Doesn’t believe in post though, does Steve, meaning they’ve had to go all the way out to collect it in person.

“So your guy, what kind of art does he actually... do?” Dean dodges under a low lying piece of scrap metal, which was comfortingly hanging from what appears to be a washing line.

“Abstract mostly,” Garth answers smiling.

“And he can’t get his ass to the nearest town and use the _post_ because-“

Bang!

A fucking shot. Purple explodes on the surface behind him, a ball of colour splattering and dripping down the wood.

“What the hell!?” Dean exclaims, ducking down and attempting to bring Garth down with him.

“Oh it’s cool, it’s what he does if he likes someone,” Garth nods reassuringly, shaking Dean off and standing up to wave, “Hey Steve!”

Brushing himself off, Dean stands following after Garth towards the guy’s trailer-esque shack. He walks cautiously, not trusting any man he’s never met with a gun... Even if it is of the paintball variety.

“What does he do to people he doesn’t like?” He mutters, blowing out a breath and pushing through the beads that have replaced a door. “Friggin’ peachy.”

Inside is actually impressive, given the desolate and frankly creepy décor from the outside. The wooden surfaces are sodden, but Dean can only tell that by the faint smell of excrement and mould. Everywhere is covered in sheets of paper, bubbled over paint pots and brushes strewn across the tables; it’s surprisingly light too, artificial bulbs in each corner, eradicating all shadows, except for their own.

Steve, in the strangest twist of fate, is a one legged dwarf. No, really, and Dean is amazed when he really takes in all the art here. It’s incredible. Single handed masterpieces of the night sky, intricate in their accuracy, of immortal worlds he’ll never see, born purely from the man’s imagination.

He doesn’t say this though, because Steve has the gun in his hand, and he’s pointing at Dean like he’s waiting for him to comment on his work.

“We’ll send the money over if we choose to use it.” Dean says, as friendly as he can manage to force out.

Both Garth and Steve scowl at him, and Steve chooses to roll his eyes, swivelling on his good leg to reach for the drawings.

“Yeah, right,” He hands the stuff to Garth, not that Dean can see _what_ from the distance he’s chosen to take, “I’ll see you around man.”

It’s the closest thing the guys said to a kind statement since they’ve got there. Garth has the vacuum packed documents in his hand, cardboard wrapped squares, clearly he’s given them some options, and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued.

“So that was Steve,” Dean says, unnecessarily, once they’re backing away from the crooked building.

“Yup, and check these out,” He’s got just the edge of one of the pictures peaking out of the top of the cardboard packaging.

“Holy shit.”

***

Castiel’s week has been frustrating. All of this, social disorder and team work, is straining him from his delicate balance; most of these people he’s never seen before in his long career at Celestial Inc. He rubs a hand across his face for what feels like one time too many, and he is now staring blankly at the incompetence of his ‘team mates’.

They have been tasked with release dates and press release. If he was proficient with arranging things, _he wouldn’t need a god damn secretary._ He needs a coffee. Dean would normally have brought him something for lunch, because the man seems to know exactly when he could use a pick me up.

His team is equally irritating. The day is almost, thankfully, at an end and he’s considering escaping for a coffee break anyway, so he stands, stretching, leaving his companions behind. Making his way down the hall, he nearly walks into to a very smug looking Dean. Conceited is a new, and interesting, expression to see on his face, it’s unusual to see anything other than reservation or sarcastic shielding.

“Heyya Cas,” Dean beams, “We just nailed our assignment, how’s yours coming on?”

The rest of Dean’s group passes, Charlie offering a wave, but Dean stops. He puts a hand on his shoulder, which Cas stares at blankly before blinking rapidly.

“You ok there buddy?” Dean’s face has contorted, with alarm of some sort, and Cas is taken aback by how quickly his priorities change. He should be celebrating the completion of his task, not comforting Castiel in his childish whims.

“It has not been as simple as I had originally conceived.” His voice is wearier than he previously had perceived it to be. He hopes to catch up on what he’s missed this weekend, although he does not find that prospect great either.

“You got stuck with those assholes from Printing and HR didn’t you?” Dean shakes his head, a mournful and jerky movement, “Well, I’m done so maybe I can have a word with Zach and help you out.”

Before he can answer, Dean has winked at him and is walking away.

Castiel goes home, after his coffee, having checked his emails and sifted through the paperwork that his helpful workmates have left on his desk at the end of the day. He rereads what they had outlined, and the frustration that had been kept at bay by the introduction of caffeine wells in his system anew, fresh disapproval of Zachariah’s decisions lining his thoughts thickly. The annoyance clouds him all the way home, a tick in the back of his mind while he’s driving, and, because the universe is out to get him, he gets caught in a red light every single time.

His weekend passes in an unfairly long amount of time, a bubble around him as he stresses over dates, settings, times, _people_. There are more times when he slams the phone down than he actually has a polite conversation with another human being.  He lands heavily on his sofa, and isn’t surprised when he alarm sounds on Monday morning to find himself in his boxers, phone pressed to his ear, with an niggling crick in his neck from falling asleep on the couch.

Having showered and redressed, he has a pinch of revised optimism in the fact that Dean’s team is free and can aid in the other groups decisions and reservations. The more heads they have on it the better, and as someone who has firsthand experience on Dean’s eligibility for dates and times and places, he is confident Zachariah will put him with him and Printing.

He is in early, wanting to get a head start in pitching his weekends work to the more reasonable minds of his group. Walking along the carpeted halls to his office, he takes his glasses from his pocket, and with his free hand slips them on. Gabriel and Balthazar used to tease him endlessly, saying he looks more like a teacher than an office goon, even though he only needs them for reading, but they do make him look esteemed and it adds to his authority.

To Castiel’s cynical amusement, his certainty is punched out of him when he sees Dean sitting in his office, much as a scorned child, petulance and disobedience scrawled across his face, would do so. It’s dark inside, and he flips on the light, not startling Dean who seems to manage to cross his arms tighter.

“Zach said no friggin’ way,” Dean huffs, and Castiel wonders if Dean would know if anyone walked in just from their silhouette.

“I see,” He says, masking the severe case of disappointment that rings through him, “So what will you be spending the rest of the time doing?”

Cas places his briefcase on his desk, emptying it of the papers. He can feel Dean’s gaze on him, and he straightens turning to his friend.

“Dean?”

“Pretty much on standby, here if anyone needs me. ‘Went against orders, Mr Winchester’.” Dean mocks, in an impertinently babyish tone.

“Oh,” Cas frowns down at the page.

He must end up staring at the numbers, letters, running it over in his mind one more time before he intends to pitch it, forgetting that Dean is in the room with him.

“But I could always have a look now, seeing as your office was about as organised as Pandora’s Box.”

Dean’s smile is blinding, even if it is only the twitch in his bottom lip; cocky, defiant and looking for any reason to provoke Zachariah. Perhaps against his better judgement, he hands Dean the papers. He scribbles away furiously, writing little anecdotes along the margin, making Castiel feel more like the pupil in this situation. After a few minutes, Dean flips through the pages and – with a pleased nod to himself – he hands them back.

“Not bad Cas,” He says, as he leaves the office.

Cas watches him go, with the pages held limply between his fingers. He reads Dean’s work, and, right in the corner of the last page, he smirks, a private smile that is just for him.

_Not bad for a rookie, Novak ;)_


	10. Who Are You Really?

The next month is intense. Everything has come together, from the book itself, the cover, the PR and just about every single department in this office complex had a part of it. They naturally do, at some point, anyway, but the so called ‘team building’ has been deemed a success.

Castiel doesn’t know what Dean ended up doing; he hadn’t seen him since their conversation before. He hasn’t had time for socialisation, except among his own peers. It has been morbidly unsatisfying, making him long for his isolated office and often wordless, yet profound, conversations with Dean.

The main thing is, however, that the yearning is over. Zachariah has ordered a meeting, in which everyone must attend to discuss the business opportunities that have been opened up here. The client is happy – incredibly so, they even offered to throw in free copies of the book for the employees – and that is an important outcome of Zachariah’s experiment... Not in the least, the fact that Cas can go back to what he’s good at.

He takes his seat in the same place as he did in the first company meeting, slouching down in order to avoid looking at, or be looked at, by his colleagues. Over the lip of the table, he can see the others bustling in, muttering excitedly to each other about the possibility of a raise, and all the new friends they’ve made.

Rolling his eyes, he laughs quietly to himself. Zachariah hasn’t offered anyone a raise in-

Zachariah hasn’t _ever_ offered anyone a raise.

Not even to Metatron, and that man is a try hard if Castiel can define one. The man is brazenly infuriating, although there is nothing pinpoint-able about him to explain it. He’s just immensely too manipulative and self obsessed.

 Dean sits across from him, in the same exact moment that Zachariah enters the room. For some reason, Dean finds this hilarious, and Cas spends the first 5 minutes of Zachariah’s speech watching Dean attempt, mostly fail, to keep a straight face. Charlie is sat beside him, in an equally ridiculous state of discomfort, her whole body shaking with her badly contained giggles.

The talk goes on for too long, the words not filtering past the far more amusing scene of Dean and Charlie.

Then Zachariah sits down.

And Castiel realises why they are laughing.

He’d been so focused on them; he hadn’t seen Ash inching away from his seat towards Zachariah. No one in the room appears to have noticed Ash move, though now that he expands his view to the other people, he can see a few of them laughing too.

Zachariah sits down... On a tac.

What was he saying about working with children, not seconds ago?

They are all dismissed, Zachariah’s face turning an impressive, and slightly concerning, shade of red.

“Out! All of you!” He booms, and the room empties away, the scuffling of feet being silenced by barks of laughter as soon as they reach the corridor.

Cas follows out after, slower than the rest. Dean is already at his desk, packing his satchel - did he used to have a briefcase?- only looking up when Cas opens the door to his own office.

He busies himself with packing his own stuff away, waiting for the shy knock against the glass of his door.

“Hey Cas,” Dean peeks his head in, then slides his whole body round, closing it behind him, “I was wondering, whether you’d like to come celebrate? Zach’s a douche, but we were all going to go down to The Roadhouse-“

“Castiel!” Zachariah enters his office, obviously unaware that Dean was in there with him, and does so with such gusto that Dean startles.

“Oh,” Zach’s face falls to a sneer, “Winchester, you mind giving us a minute?”

He gestures between both himself and Castiel; Cas absently tries to work out when his boss and Dean started treating him like a piece of rope, to tug and taunt each other with. Dean, who glares notably, remains standing, waiting for Castiel’s answer. Of course, it is difficult because no doubt Zachariah hasn’t been invited and if he randomly chooses to say ‘yes’, Zachariah will invite himself out of spite.

Nodding instead, he hopes to convey the need for Dean to leave with an intense stare. Dean struggles with the order and the self righteous flame burning in his eyes, but he eventually sighs and turns to leave.

Zachariah mutters something under his breath, as Castiel opens his briefcase and starts putting folders inside. He stops because Dean hasn’t fully gone yet and there is now the physical barrier of his desk blocking them.

“Screw you asshat.” Dean fires back, out of nowhere, “Just because you’re going to ask Cas to do overtime, and because he’s the best damn employee you’ve got he’ll-“

 “Who do you think you are, Dean Winchester?” Zachariah sneers.

Dean tenses. Castiel can see, through that ridiculous long shirt, the muscles of his back clenching, hardening, as he straightens up.

“Whatever you think I am.”  

With that, Dean stalks out of the room, slamming the door with such force that the blinds rattle against the glass. Cas sighs, he would very much like to follow Dean out, offer him the comfort of simple communication or perhaps an apology. He hadn’t intended for Dean to react so negatively towards Zachariah in the first place, and now it seems the bumbling idiot has struck a nerve in Dean’s personal life.

Until Dean had pointed it out, literally, Castiel had only entertained his distaste for his superior. He enjoys his job, he likes his clients, but Zachariah is a black cloud following him around, raining on his and Dean’s good mood just when they appear to be getting somewhere.

But he wants to know, because he never had the chance to do so before, what Dean had meant by what he just said. He never did get round to doing a full background check – it is almost customary to Google a new employees names and scan through their social media. People share a lot more than they should.

Castiel is stuck, considering Dean’s offer for drinks, if it still stands, and clicking the enticing circle of red, yellow and green.

“What did you want, Zachariah?” Cas musters the most emotionless voice he can manage.

“To congratulate you, Castiel.” He smiles, the wrinkles of his face bunching up into bigger, deeper, crevasses.

“Thank you.”

Neither of them speak.

“Is that all?” He asks, tilting his head to the man in question.

Zachariah leaves with a glower and an indignant huff, choosing to also take the childish notion of slamming his office door. Cas winces, and then opens up the internet.

Google stares at him, the cursor blinking on the screen. He could _not_ do this, and go on without the knowledge, the cryptic message, hidden beneath Dean’s slumped shoulders and apprehensive implication. It could change everything, or nothing, and despite the fact that the world will continue to turn, he and Dean will face each other every working day, he can’t help but feel, inexplicably, he’s missing something important. His intrigue is eating him alive, festering like a maggot in his head.

 _Hold up now kiddo_ , a voice worryingly Gabriel-esque interjects, _this isn’t any of your business._ He may not be able to turn back from this. However there is evidently something, whether it be personal or professional, affecting Dean’s behaviour and as a boss, and his _friend_ , it would be irresponsible to not investigate further. Plus, it’s not like their working relationship has ever been-

Even remotely so-

In any possible way-

From the first day they met, in the circumstances that transpired, something between them has been simmering, and it feels almost tangible now, in the room, when their eyes meet. With this in mind, he concentrates back on the illumination from his screen.

He taps the keys, the soft light of his computer filling the dark office. The cleaners will be coming around soon, so as he clicks enter on the search he gathers his briefcase and coat, slinging it over the arm of the chair and sits back down. Zooming in, figuratively, by drawing his chair closer, he clicks on the first link that appears. They’re mostly from the same time period, although his eyes scan down while the page takes time to load, noting that ‘fire’ is a common attribute to each of the results. He makes a mental note to check out the one at the very bottom, dated November ’83.

Brazen images of a fire, raging on in the frozen picture, fills his screen, alongside a newspaper article. It’s not from here, but from a town Lawrence, Kansas, and he skims through the words searching for anything that links this tragedy back to Dean. More images are attached to it, flames liked up the walls, destruction very much evident, leaving its charcoal smear on a broken building.

Then he finds it. With it, the image of Dean, presumably, and small child laid down beside him on separate ambulance gurneys.

_Dean Winchester,24,  left, the fire fighter of 6 years that risked his life._

_Lilith Natas, 9, right, the little girl who couldn’t be saved._

A fire fighter.

It fits his theory of Dean being a man of action, and though Cas can taste the tang of bile in the back of his mouth, he manages to ignore the blistering of Dean’s skin, the singed lines of the fabric that failed to protect him.

The article outlines the details, bare minimum, of the result of the fire. IGNITION POINT and UNKNOWN CAUSE and SOURCES SUGGEST INVOLVEMENT OF- are bolded, and Castiel wonders of their significance on this story. It goes into detail about the fire service getting the family out, the mother, the father, the son and the dog, but not little Lilith Natas. He clicks down on the scroll bar, leaning back in his chair to the maximum recline as a video loads. He watches the swirl of white circles, going around and around –

The street is lit up, a single house the beacon on the dark road. Bare outlines, murky, disfigured shapes stand in awe of it, panic glittering in the fluctuation of the shadows. The video quality is bad, as you would expect from a phone at the dead of night, but he can make out another explosion, fire bursting at the seams of the upstairs windows. Glass shattering, the men adorned in thick fluorescent suits, scathed with soot and shrouded, cowering before the blaze, it crackles the sounds frighteningly loud coming from his screen.

While some of them tackle the blaze, those who had been inside pad off the charred and flaming parts of their arms, patting down their legs, dragging their helmets from their heads. One of them does a head count, and Cas can’t tell who it is but the basis of their expression is confusion. He’s a large man, too stocky to be Dean, and he walks forward to the crowd, the other ensuring the unconscious make it to the ambulance. It’s all a mess of flashing lights and snapping flames and, to his abject horror, Cas finds himself mesmerised. Voices mutter, a hysterical (presumably a neighbour, someone close to the family) yells about the daughter, they haven’t saved the daughter.

And then a scream.

One of the fire fighter’s head snaps up, looking back to the engulfed structure. A girl, no, not even that, Cas moves forward to squint at the pixelated image, just the hand print against the window at the very top of the house. Small, and clawing, and desperate against the plumes of dark smoke swallowed by the night sky.

The men try to hold the fire fighter back; he’s without his helmet, which must be what he picks up in a half fall, half dash on his way back to the door. He crashes through it, his leg powering through the weak wood, and the camera jostles, losing focus.

Spectators are creating a racket, standing on, like the background noise to a ghastly sound track. The flames pulse in the doorway, and the man who had come back to speak to the crowd is shouting at the other fire fighters, who focus the hose where they can in an attempt to stem the blaze and help their friend. He’s pushed up in someone’s face when his attention switches so fast Cas gets momentary motion blur from where he’s supposed to be looking.

It’s barely distinguishable, but there’s the faint cry and a significant crack follows that sends sparks flying out the front door.

“Benny no!” A voice from beside the person filming shrieks, but it’s already too late, because he’s zipping himself back up and throwing his helmet on. If it’s in anger or haste to find the source, Cas can’t tell.

There’s a terrifying second where Cas feels like he’s there with them, the crowd, watching as two men enter the depths of hell and neither have yet to walk out. Of course, logically, he knows that Dean has been through this, survived this, but it’s a turn that makes him woozy just thinking about Dean striding in there, willingly risking his life within a split second decision. What a selfless man... Why isn’t he proud of this?

A figure looms from the brightness, something broken and twisted in his arms, whisked away by the EMT on the scene. Another snarl and the front door spits embers at them with a mocking finality to it. The man – Benny – along with someone else, runs towards it, staring it down with the downward stroke of his helmet.

The body that follows minutes, feeling more hours, later is writhing in agony.

“Turn that thing off, dammit Sherry.”

The screen goes blank, and the infuriating ‘replay’ button appears. Castiel is a man of strong wills, and stomach, his emotionless being is something that is very hard to penetrate. But there, Dean wrapped in a ball of flames, the image of his skin burned away, red, pulsing, bloody-

He has to sit back, to pinch his eyes shut and remember that Dean’s okay. He sits in his office, running rudimental tasks instead of running towards danger. There isn’t a shadow of doubt about going out to drinks with Dean now - and the others to celebrate - for the desire to touch him again burns a steady thrum through his fingers. To see for himself the damage of the selflessness that had been incurred.

He’s about to close the window, when he sees a link at the bottom of the article.

_Natas: Fire Scandal That Scorches The Town_

Puzzled, perpetually, he opens it in a new window. The frown on his face deepens the more he reads; the next article is no better.

_Court Judge, Winchester Acquitted: Family In Uproar_

_It was decided today by Judge Rufus that Dean Winchester, 24, is not guilty of causing the unintentional manslaughter of 9 year old Lilith Natas. For the first few months, Mr Winchester’s injuries had been too severe for him to submit a statement, but close family suggested that Dean implied the girl_ didn’t want to be saved. _As contradictory and hurtful as this had been, Dean, shown in the artists depiction (left) had been taken to court by the family, saying there is more that could have been done and more questions than answers provided by the evidence._

 _Mr Winchester was represented, unconventionally, by his brother, Sam Winchester (right) who defended against the character and manslaughter accusations. ‘He has been a fire fighter for 6 years,’ the younger Winchester said, in a statement after the trial, ‘And he’s been saving lives long before that. The death of that little girl still haunts my brother, but there was nothing_ , nothing, _he could have done to save her.’_

The article continues on.

Castiel has stopped reading the words.

Was what the family implying even legal? Dean risked his life for that girl. The brother’s words imply much more to Dean than his dumbfounding _long sleeved shirts_ , bad jokes and hard work ethic.

“Mr Castiel sir,” A man pokes his head through the door way, hoover nose in his hand, “May I clean now?”

Castiel shuts the computer down, quickly slipping on the familiar tan fabric on his coat. He smiles apologetically, the briefcase swinging in his hand as he exits his office.

He makes a detour on the way to the bar, dropping his briefcase and car off at home; he chooses to catch a bus. This puts him in the position to drink, should he decide to, and gives him an excuse to talk to Dean in private.

The air is crisp as he walks the crunch of gravel on concrete loud in the car park under the toes of his shoes. From where he is, he can hear the hum of music, an underlying throb of base and indefinable lyrics. The images of Dean’s body creeps back in, catching him off guard. He kicks at a few pieces of stone, scuffing his pristine leather shoes most probably, and he is unperturbed by what would have been – only months ago – a disturbing mindset. He can’t un-see it though, Dean lifeless, his skin a blotchy patchwork of fire and burns. Closer now, he can smell the lingering beer, and steps over a questionable pile of chunky looking liquid, his nose scrunching at what it indicates.

‘The Roadhouse’ is a nice bar, never asking for more than a good time and no fighting. Or, should a fight break out, that you’re willing to do it for bets. The moral ambiguity here is interestingly diverse, the mother and daughter duo that run it a combination of spirits and gasoline. Volatile, highly flammable; deadly.

It’s rustic though, from its strong wooden slats, the flickering sign illuminated further due to the time of night and how dark the sky, with low hanging cloud, has gotten. The inside is far more rustic, as you would expect for a stereotypical American bar. It smells of beer, the music far louder in here, pumping over the rowdy shouts and cusses from its patrons.

His search through the crowd lands his gaze at the corner, where Dean, Charlie and Ash are laughing at something; Dean’s head is thrown back, the glorious expanse of his neck, and a peak of red ink, stretches up from beneath the barrier of his shirt. The conversation they had with Zachariah earlier, either repressed or forgotten. Someone knocks into Cas, who should have known better for all his staring, the force of their stumble following through and almost turning him entirely around. He glares at the sarcastic apology, loud and overbearing even with the jukebox singing its heart out, drawing Dean’s drifting eyes. What was he looking for, waiting for him to show, perhaps?

No, that is a ridiculous hope, whim, to entertain.

He raises his hand in an awkward wave, still hovering at the bar. Dean rolls his eyes, and makes a flapping motion with his hand, incurring him over, welcoming him to the small band of friends.

Taking his time in transecting the crowd, which pulses unnervingly with the beat, the stench of beer grows stronger, following him there. It is practically oppressive when he meets Dean, who has a sparkle in his eyes and an unguarded softness in his smile.

“Hello Dean,” He finds himself saying, re-entering Dean’s orbit so simply it feels like a pull. How easy it would be, to cup those freckled cheeks and feel those lips upon his again. His first taste was too fleeting, at a time when he was naïve to understanding the uncomfortable clench at the personal emails, and the desire to see the jade green dance as they do tonight. “And Charlie,” He acquiesces, even though these are Dean’s friends more than his own.

They are very accepting, on the whole.

“And Ash,” He continues, leaning aside to acknowledge the man.

“Yo Cas,” Comes the collective reply, and it amuses him to no end that before – in a time where he did not know Dean, though distant and odd it is to think about – no one would refer to him, in any form, as anything other than Castiel.

Everyone has picked ‘Cas’ up; maybe it took Dean to break the barriers he’d placed fighting so hard for his job. And how easy then, too, that being around Dean, thinking of him, makes him wonder what he was fighting so hard _for_.

“Hey Cas, I ordered for you,” Dean turns, handing him a full bottle of beer, de-capped; still cold.

Warmth circles his gut, not from the swig he has just taken, because being _wanted_ , let alone expected is a foreign concept to him. He brushes his fingers against Dean’s arm as he leans forward to place the bottle back on the table, the chill a little too reminiscent of the weather outside for his liking.

He finds himself staring at Dean, rather than unshort-circuiting his brain to reply.

_He’s here, alive and safe. It is okay, Castiel._

 “Thank you, Dean.”

The walls are covered in memorabilia, a road trip of state signs, flags and old pictures. It’s warm, a settling glow and bustle that is alive enough to keep Castiel awake after a trying clientele, but comely, so that he relaxes, the tension rolling away within the walls.

Dean shrugs, unable to take gratitude no matter what form it takes.

“Ash was just telling us the time he tried to hack Charlie and woke up the next morning with a glass dildo and drained accounts,” Dean takes a few times to complete the sentence, stifled with laughter once more, the crack in his voice on dildo – Dean broke eye contact with him as he said it.

Cas laughs, imagining the surprise of finding that gift, and discovering that your accounts had been drained. He is not a morning person, not really, and, he side eyes Charlie warily, he would do well to never antagonise her.

“It’s almost as funny as the time Dean tripped while leading a LARPing battle,” Charlie sniggers in return, Ash hooting a drunken sound.

“LARPing?” Cas asks, questioningly. It’s an anagram, obviously, but he has never heard of anything of the sort.

Dean had been blushing after the mention of ‘glass dildo’ and Cas notes, with a grin, that the red is now tingeing the tips of his ears; his head is ducked, lips wrapped around his bottle in an attempt to avoid the conversation.

“Live action role play dude,” Ash says, stumbling past, “I’m gunna go play me some pool!”

“Don’t pass out this time, lightweight!” Dean shouts out to him, snorting as Ash holds his middle finger in the air, the wave of people parting to let him through.

“Anyway, Dean totally face planted at a battle last month,” Charlie shakes her head, mock disappointed, “My best knight.”

“Knight?” Cas asks, eyes roaming up and down Dean’s body, imagining the man in chainmail, his face painted in dirt and fake blood.

It should not, with any right, be as hot as his imagination supplies.

“Yeah, I’m a regular nerd,” Dean sighs, his eyes shifting to Cas in a nervous gesture.

Maybe he expects him to comment on it, to degrade him for it.

“I read books,” Cas says, edging the silence that has settled over them in an attempt to placate Dean’s change of behaviour; in that he too is a nerd; he doesn’t understand the negative stigma people choose to associate with it as a label.

A smile threatens to creep up Dean’s lips.

Castiel has never noticed how beautiful those half smiles, not quite there, like he’s holding back, are. Knowing Dean’s history, which is blackened and tarred and affecting him badly to this day, has turned him in a whole new light. If anything, Castiel is more enamoured by the development, and he wishes to balm the problems that have followed Dean from Lawrence.

“Me too!” Charlie squeaks, and he smiles at her.

“Alright you two _nerds_ discuss books, I’m going to get another round.”

He watches Dean leave; ordering more drinks despite the fact that Cas has barely touched his first. It’s the first time he has gotten to fully appreciate the way his bow legs affect the way he walks, and he watches until he stops at the bar. There he gets drawn into a conversation with the barista, a friend, his mind supplies as something relevant that Dean has mentioned about this place.

 “He is an enigma, isn’t he?” Charlie asks, suddenly, making his eyes drift from Dean’s full body laughter to her own amused expression.

“I do not know what you mean.” He replies, but he does. Oh, he does. His eyes are inexplicably drawn back, watching as he smiles and laughs with the other colleagues that have made their way also to the bar. His eyes narrow on one of the far more drunk women who trails a hand down Dean’s neck, however, surprisingly and with a warm curl of happiness that he doesn’t want to examine in his gut, Dean easily brushes her off.

Charlie makes a happy tipsy sound beside him.

“He doesn’t talk about his family very much does he? _And why does he always wear long sleeved shirts?_ ” She slurs slightly, pointing at him accusingly. Dean must see her because his head snaps up, Cas’ eyes locking in his. The appeasing smile goes from faux to genuine as Dean excuses himself from the conversation and makes his way back over.

He hums to himself, considering Charlie’s statement. An enigma does in fact describe him quite fittingly.

“Did you miss me?” Dean says, smiling at Charlie but downright grinning at Cas, placing their drinks on the side.

“Hello Dean.”

It wasn’t really necessary for him to say hello again, Dean had only been gone a matter of minutes, but here they are, where they always find themselves to be, looking at one another and not being able to look away, and Castiel is feeling the buzz from the sips of beer he’s had. In the corner of his eye, he notices Charlie glancing between them both, her eyebrows rising in a silent realisation. He doesn’t know what she is thinking; he doesn’t focus on her leaving. The bottle in his hand becomes a point to ground himself as he holds onto it like it’s the final rope holding him back.

Dean hasn’t said anything more. He’s just looking at Cas, deciding something. His eyes are bright, unnaturally lit by the room, his smile tipsy and the words that Cas has been shoving down for the past months nearly spill out without his consent.

“Dean I...” Shaking his head, he manages to stop himself, “I require a ride home.”

An expression of hope dies and reignites in Dean’s eyes as he nods. He glances to the beers he’s just bought and shrugs, gathering them up and striding off into the crowd. Just before he is swallowed up by the gyrating bodies, squeezing around the table of a particularly gnarly looking man, he looks over his shoulder back to Cas.

“Sure thing man.”

Cas waits, tapping his fingers restlessly against the arm of his coat. Dean should have come back by now, or was he meant to follow him?

“You coming Cas?” Dean says, appearing out of nowhere beside him.

They walk out of the bar and step into the cold. It’s nearing the middle of autumn, his favourite time of year. The transition of the trees and the world starts all over. He watches the leaves change colour through his windows at home, tracking them as they fall to the ground. It is one of his favourite seasons.

Dean’s shivering and, because he had wanted to park his car ‘somewhere safe Cas, no one hurts my baby’, Cas briefly contemplates offering him his coat. He doesn’t suppose Dean will accept his offer though, so they walk contentedly in silence.

“Dean,” He says, the sudden urge – now that they are alone – to both confront and comfort welling up on him.

Dean hums in response. It is clear that he has sobered up somewhat, the cold chill ripping through the fabric of his shirt.

“I know about your past.” He states simply.

Dean trips over on the path, almost falling on his face if Cas’ arm hadn’t reached out to stop him. He squirms beneath his hand, twisting and pulling away.

“What the hell Cas!” He shouts, air puffing, white steam rising in the air, “I was bluffing man!”

Dean stalks away angrily, and Cas isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to follow.

“-The scrabble marks on my helmet were inconclusive-“

Or how he’s going to get home. Buses don’t run this late, he glances over his shoulder, and most businesses are closed now. He could always call a taxi.

Dean is still ranting, hysterically into the dark, quiet night.

“-I mean Zach’s too much of a self obsessed prick to look me up but you.” He swivels to face him, crumpling under the weight of his eyes, “I never wanted _you_ to know about that part of me.”

“It’s not a part of-“ Cas makes a frustrated noise, risking a step closer.

Tears are shining in Dean’s eyes, the ground behind him highlighted in a soft orange from the streetlight above.

He reaches his hand out, and freezes when Dean flinches.

“You’re incredible, a _hero_... What have I ever done that even comes close to-“

Cold lips slam into him, the heat radiating from Dean’s body cocooning him in, wrapping around until the whole street, thought, zeroes into where their bodies are touching. It is nothing like the first kiss; Dean’s lips are chapped from the wintry air, insistent, opening beneath the pressure of his own. He breathes out heavily through his nose, hands bunched in Cas’ shirt as though desperate, clinging to him, and in a moment, a fleeting second, while Cas’ brain is still getting over how _good_ that it had felt to kiss him properly, Dean is gone.

He’s pulled away-

Staggering back.

Stunned to silence but puffed lips ringed in a perfect ‘o’.

“Come home with me, Dean.”


	11. Something Stronger

They skid round the corner into Cas’ street, Dean  parking (where did he learn to drive with an efficiency of a professional, an air of calm even as he pulls near horizontal to the curb?) and turning off the engine with a shyness that’s different than before.

He climbs, out, looking over his shoulder.

“Just come in, please. For coffee.”

Dean swallows, his pupils dilating, removing the trace of anything remotely green. He’s skittish, afraid, and Cas doesn’t want to push him away. He knows that he should. He should be closing the door to Dean’s beautiful car, thanking him for the ride and then dealing with the sexual frustration alone. _Alone_.

But he can’t. He can’t, he _won’t_ , he needs Dean –

He needs to feel his body against him again, with preferably less clothing. Dean should know that he’s important, valued, and Cas wants to breathe every inch of that into him because even though, absolutely not, none of this is about feelings, Cas can’t go back to work, not until he and Dean have either fucked this out or spoken about it like adults.

“Ok. Yeah ok Cas.”

Cas has his door open and is waiting there before Dean decides to get out of the car. He’s nervous; the energy between them crackling as their sleeves brush and Dean enters inside. He has never seen Dean this... Flustered.

“Your digs are pretty swanky Cas,” Dean says, walking down his hallway.

He watches him, his silhouette swallowed in darkness, stuck in his feet by the door. The lights flick on, and at the end, by the doorway to the kitchen, is Dean’s grinning face. Cas laughs, looking up to the bright light hanging over his head. How many times has he imagined this? Since he started working for him, since they kissed? He stares into the filament until he sees spots in his vision, at any rate it is sufficient enough to make Dean walk back down the hall.

“You ok there?” Dean watches him, running a hand through his short hair.

Cas wants it to be _his_ hand. He swallows.

“Yes Dean. Coffee?”

Moving to go past him, a hand stops him in the centre of his chest. Dean holds him back, pressing him against the wall. His palm is cold; Cas can feel it sweeping through the layers of his shirt.

Dean shrugs, fingers flexing, “I could go for something a little stronger.”

If he hadn’t known it was coming, the bruising force that Dean decides to use to finally bring their lips together could have hurt. Dean slams him into the hallway wall, hands rising to wring themselves in Cas’ hair. He can taste the beer on Dean’s tongue, the roughness of his stubble at the corners of his mouth. Dean’s pressed as much of himself as he can against him, the chill of the outside world still clinging to Dean’s body. Through his coat he can feel Dean’s arousal against his hip; evidence of the slow burn that has tailed in the shadows behind them for the last half hour. Cas rolls his hips forward, both of them grunting at the friction, with his hands reaching around to settle on the juts of Dean’s hips, bringing him infinitesimally closer, ensuring Dean has no intention of pulling away this time.

“Cas,” He pants, his breath hot and wet against the scruff on Cas’ neck, “You know we probably shouldn’t, right?”

Not even faltering in moving this on, Cas pushes against Dean’s shoulders to crowd him up to the wall on the other side. Hopefully by the end of the night they make it more than 3 ft through the doorway. He stops, chest breathing deeply, licking his lips and looks directly into his eyes.

“I know.”

“Fricking Han Soloed by the Vulcan,” is the last coherent string of consecutive words Dean manages to gasp out before he’s back on him, sucking marks into his pulse point. Dean’s whole body goes pliant, the chilled skin dimpling beneath his tongue.

“Cas,” Dean sighs, hands scrabbling futilely at his half un-tucked shirt, “Off.”

Cas laughs, properly, his lips vibrating against the warmed up skin of Dean’s neck.

“As much as I wish to ravish you here,” He bites a little harder on the flesh and Dean’s dick twitches beneath his jeans, “There’s a queen size bed up stairs that would be far more comfortable.”

“Mm, bed, yes good,” Dean says distractedly, pulling Cas by his tie towards the stairs.

They, predictably, fall down half way up. Cas crawls up him, almost in the press up position so as not to squash Dean into the hard panels of the stairs. He kisses him slowly, pushing off his outer layer. Dean does the same, and he loses his coat and suit jacket in one motion, moving up a few more stairs. Standing up, in a fit of giggles that is frankly embarrassing for two men, they kick off their shoes and fumble with their socks, Dean close to slipping in a too enthusiastic movement.

Stumbling through the doorway – _on the left Dean, your other left! –_ to the bedroom, Cas pulls off another one of Dean’s t-shirts. Dean is still doing an impressive job of assaulting his mouth, his tongue swirling round, mapping out every inch of him.

“You wear,” Cas growls, stuck trying to undo the buttons of the flannel, “Too many layers.”

Dean chuckles, having finished doing the same to his dress shirt seconds earlier, balling it up and tossing it to the floor.

“I could say the same thing.”

Cas launches forward, sucking on Dean’s bottom lip and unbuckling the belt to his jeans. The room is filled with obscene noises; Cas’ neighbours are going to be glad he lives in a detached house. He slides his hand under the waistband of Dean’s boxers, palming him completely erect beneath the confines of his clothes. Dean grunts, shoving both their jeans half way down and he turns them, pushing Cas down onto the bed.

“Damn Cas,” He shimmies down kicking off his own jeans after a few flails of his legs, drawing Cas’ down and off. “This bed is _heaven_.”

Above him, Dean hovers, the end of his tie caught roughly in his fist. He tugs on it, jerking Cas’ neck up to drag him into another passionate kiss. Cas’ hands bunch in the shirt still covering Dean’s torso, wanting more, and _more_ , skin. Their legs are tangled together and it becomes overwhelmingly clear – with Dean’s tongue making its way down his neck, swirling around each nipple like it has a mission to do so, which causes the neurons in his brain to momentarily forget what about this equation is bothering him – that if he doesn’t flip them, he won’t get to see Dean’s chest.

He spins their positions, easily given how preoccupied Dean was with rubbing his hips against him and over sensitizing his nipples, and makes to shove his hands up and under the plain black tee that separates him from closure on Dean’s harrowing tale. Fingers wrap around his wrists, stopping him; he does, but not without a small whine of protest.

“You really don’t wanna go their Cas,” Dean pants.

_This is not about feelings. He’s just your secretary who you have an undeniable amount of sexual tension with._

_He’s just-_

“You have multiple scars caused by lacerations across your chest,” His fingers trace the marks he can remember on the fabric, “Down your back,” He leans back to straddle Dean’s hips, pressing down intently, “On your legs.”

Now that their movement has slowed from frantic to slightly _less_ frantic, he can see the tattoos winding their ways up Dean’s arms, his hands smoothing up the pallets of colour on Dean’s legs. The man hasn’t said anything; he’s staring in awe – his eyes not quite believing, but his dick fully hard in his boxers.

“I want to see you. All of you. If you would let me, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”

He sees the indecision in Dean’s eyes, the spit slicked lips being bitten on, the thought process chewed out, the way his fingers scrunch in the blue cotton of his bed sheet; for a horrifying second Dean might say no; Cas won’t get the connection he craves; things will go back to the way they were. He honestly does not know if he will be able to do that. The impasse of his life will, no matter what happens now, forever be thrown off kilter.

“Go find the lube or whatever,” Even in the darkness of the room, the blush on Dean’s cheeks glow, “Give me a minute.”

He stands up, nodding to Dean seriously. As he walks away, he hears Dean mumble as he sits up, but forces himself not to look back. He can give Dean this much. Whatever he sees in himself as broken, Cas can put him together. Switching on the bathroom light, with a nice background buzz and dim yellow brightness filling the room, he searches through the cabinet. He deliberately takes longer, gathering a condom and the bottle of lube. Leaning on the bathroom sink, he divests himself of pants and starts with a few lazy strokes on his prominent erection.

He deems enough time to have passed, after straining his ears for any more signs of movement, he walks back into the bedroom. Dean is standing, profiled by the moonlight on the window, his tattoos across his back a fluid extension of his being.

“You’re beautiful.”

Dean turns.

On his back he hadn’t noticed the scars, to busy admiring the blue, red, black, lines covering him. His chest is a painted statue, marred sure, but the desire to touch is taking over. He drops the lube and condom on the bed, grabbing Dean’s arm and moving them onto the bed, up into the centre. He doesn’t know where to begin, but Dean for the moment seems placated, pushing and arching his body attentively into his hands.

His fingertips sweep down his arms, down the flowers and cassette tape and feathers, around his ribcage to the clocks and initials. The uneven bumps of skin are irrelevant to this worship, patches of pink-white scars. Not all of them look like burns, however, and though he expected scarring, the majority of the lacerations are jagged, skin ripped away by wood; physical injury as oppose to a singular culprit.

He kisses the feather on Dean’s neck, the edges of which are flittering away like ash on his pale skin. Their hands find each other in a strangely intimate gesture. The skin of his palm touches freezing metal, and he pauses his sloppy kisses to investigate what it is.

A ring.

“My Mom’s.” Dean croaks.

Cas nods, swivelling it around Dean’s finger a couple of times.

He goes back to Dean’s body, and works down, across his collar bones and around the tribal lines, sucking and licking at Dean’s nipples, as much in retaliation as for the mewl of pleasure Dean gives. Dean’s heart is thrumming an unsteady rhythm in his chest, a staccato beat of abnormal and arousal.

Once satisfied, he licks down the trail of abs; the looping scars that follow round to Dean’s back nothing more than a change of texture beneath his flattening tongue.

“Cas,” Dean’s breath hitches, “Come on man, wanna feel you in me.”

This is not the Dean Winchester he read about on the internet, nor is he the façade of the man that walks into the office each day. The man beneath him, is the real Dean Winchester; it’s an exciting assimilation of selflessness and humour and something entirely _new_.

He uncaps the lube, bracing one hand on Dean’s thick thigh. He kneads the flesh, warming up the gel coating his fingers. Making eye contact with Dean, who has nothing more than a ring of green around his pupils, his mouth drawn in and throws his head back against the pillows, he takes him into his mouth. Dean is thick and wet on his tongue, the tang of precome unpleasant but not so much that he doesn’t start sucking on the head, his other hand reaching to circle Dean’s hole.

Dean’s body seems caught between thrusting up into Cas’ mouth and pressing down into the finger breaching his entrance. His moan is loud this time, Dean muttering words of encouragement that makes Cas’ own dick twitch. He pumps his fingers, stretching Dean open with two and then three. At the third finger, his bobbing on Dean’s dick has slowed and Dean’s fingers have finally threaded through the strands of his hair.

He groans around Dean’s length, causing Dean to buck up and cry out, his fingers crooking and finding his prostate.

“Cas!” He shouts, “I’m.. Not gunna last.”

He pulls off, carefully removing his fingers and repositions Dean onto his front. The scarring is bad, but Cas has to stop, for a minute, to simply appreciate the work of art that _is_ his secretary. The wings across the tops of his shoulders, and the bird across one particularly bad gash on his shoulder blade draw his lips towards them. He mouths down, tongue flattening against the knobs of his spine like the steps of ladders; the gun spanning a large portion of his left hand side shooting origami birds down to his flank.

“Cas can you stop admiring the view and fuck me?”

Dean thrusts his ass up in emphasis, only managing to draw Cas’ eye to the single tattoo on his right cheek. With one hand he rolls the condom over his erection, sitting on his haunches and getting lost in the relief of pressure. He slicks himself up, taking one last look at the man’s inviting body under him.

“Wile E Coyote, on your ass?” Cas shakes his head, Dean’s defence choked upon as he thrusts in, shallowly at first.

“Are you alright, Dean?”

“Friggin’ awesome, now move you asshole.” Dean shifts his head to the side, and just for the insult, Cas grabs his hips, draws out, and pushes all the way into the hilt.

Dean’s surprised puff of breath is worth it entirely.

He continues to pick up the pace, alternating between thrusting part way but fast, and deep and slow. Dean is a mess beneath him, canting his hips and sliding a hand beneath himself to stroke his own dick in time with the thrusts. He kisses along the tattoos of his shoulders, biting with sporadic pressure at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

He hadn’t seen the words inked there.

The movements have lost their rhythm, frantic slaps on skin on skin over taking the growls and panting of them both. He reaches round to touch Dean too, his palm slick with sweat as they move in unison. The bleary words across Dean’s neck come together for a perfect moment of clarity.

A scar, in its serrated pattern is lined with the words:

 _“So it goes,_ ” Cas grunts, slamming in once more before coming fast, buried inside Dean.

Dean groans a litany of profanities that follow as he bucks to Castiel’s weight in order to find more room to stroke himself. He comes too, a silent gasp of a one syllable noun falling from his open mouth. They lay there, in a sweaty heap, skin cooling with the exertion over. Cas takes a deep breath, pulling out and tying off the condom. He finds Dean’s discarded boxers to clean his ass with, and turns Dean over to clean up the white liquid – as much as he can – from his stomach.

 

***

Cas pulls his willing body out of the wet patch and into the clean side of his bed. The bed that is, by the fucking way, huge. It has a memory foam mattress and if Dean knew it wasn’t seriously corny and over presumptuous, he’d make a joke about next time the memory foam will remember him.

Considering how Cas has drawn him in, and is making circles unnervingly across his back (unnerving because there are brief flashes where there are insistent warm fingers and then _no sensation at all_ ) and is spooning him like the gentlemen he is, perhaps his joke wouldn’t be presumptuous at all. It’s nice, where it should be overly weird. Later, when he’s back in his flat he’ll probably freak out because he just got the best lay of his life from his _boss_. And on Monday, back in the office, back in his chair, he’ll have the vivid imagery of Cas’ dick in his ass; that is he might still be able to feel his width, stretching him open and pounding into him.

It’s all fair and well, but Dean’s mind won’t shut itself off. Maybe it’s years of meaningless sex, which this definitely is, totally, or maybe it’s because he’s shown a man something he wouldn’t let any of those broads and dudes see. What he says will most likely ruin everything. His mind weighs it up; committing the arms around him, the soft mattress with no weird lumps, the warm duvet and the dim pastel colours to memory.

“Cas, what are we doing?”

He isn’t sure that Cas heard him, seeing as the other man hasn’t responded in any way at all.

“I don’t know.” He admits quietly and Dean is secretly pleased that whilst Cas is as uncertain as he is, his arm had in fact tensed and held him tighter as opposed to pushing him away.

(Whether it was an unconscious notion or not, Dean clings to it like a small boy to a raft in a raging sea.)

This was never, isn’t currently, about feelings; he hopes not anyway, because feelings and emotions haven’t done him any favours in the past. Cas is his boss. He’s probably just looking for a quick fuck after a frustrating day in the office. And, well, if every time is going to be like _this_ Dean will happily crush any stupid feelings and oblige in this casual affair.

“I’m not... We could... I like you Cas-“

Stammering, Dean flusters at trying to propose this. Why is it that he, Dean Winchester emotionally stunted drop out, has to find the words? He’s never been good with god damn words. Not when it matters. And this, whatever this not-relationship-no-feelings thing is, is important. To him. This is probably too far, though, and while he’d love to have something real and stable, their lives won’t allow it. _Why would he want that with you anyway, broken boy?_

“And I you, Dean.”

“Right so, because of, uh, work this,” he shifts his arm to indicate the two of them without displacing Cas’ hold on him, “wouldn’t work.”

He literally feels the scrunch of Cas’ eyebrows against his head.

“No, I suppose not.” Cas’ arms start to withdraw, and Dean tenses, rushing to explain himself before Cas gets the wrong idea and leaves completely.

“But we could still... this. No one would need to know.”

Cas is unnervingly quiet – more so than usual.

His voice is tentative, small. “You would like to do this again, with me.”

He scarcely resists a grunt, because duh, Cas is the best lay he’s had in... Well, embarrassingly probably ever. Figuring that Cas wouldn’t understand that anyway, he shifts his head, finding Cas’ eyes locked on him. He struggles to move up, pressing their lips together and then moves back down to plaster himself into Cas’ body.

“Yeah, I would.”

Monday morning, where Dean had been nervous of a change, of awkwardness – _you let him in, he knows too much_ – there was nothing different. Cas still smiles, barely there, when he sees him at his desk, and Dean still gives him the rundown of the clients he’ll be seeing that day. Cas forgets lunch, on schedule, and Dean takes him in a coffee: black like tar, just how he likes it.

He should probably be worried about how easy it is. Even in the end, when he was standing in his own shower washing dried lube, _gross_ , from between the cheeks of his ass, there was nothing. No big freak out, no concern for his job, no anxiety about Cas using what he knows against him. His mind had wracked itself for an explanation. There has to be a reason he’s _not_ panicking, right?

And he realised it.

It’s because it’s Cas.

Just like that, everything is justified.

He goes back to writing his damn emails, and pretends his grin isn’t hurting his face when he looks up and makes eye contact with Cas through his open blinds.


	12. A Change In Schedule

The next time they engage in sexual activity, it is round Dean’s. He had gone home with Dean after work, on a Friday, and for the second time he finds himself staring down Dean’s apartment complex, a thrum of energy in his veins. It’s more like a valve opening after he and Dean fornicated, a pleasant memory for when he is alone, but it is the realisation, of Dean’s offer, that he came to accept that he could have this. Maybe not forever, and it doesn’t make Dean his, it’s something; he will take whatever Dean’s offering to give.

Home to Dean is a 12 floor filing cabinet, filled with young parents and drugged up losers. Dean isn’t ashamed of where he lives – he seems proud that he can push his way past some of the worst looking men Cas has ever seen, with as little care that will have Cas fearing for his safety on a daily basis.

This time is slower, learning each other’s bodies, the way they constrict and react beneath their hands. They draw it out, Dean fucking in lazy circles, Cas arching to his touch. The weather is cold and Dean’s apartment is impossibly colder, so they draw themselves beneath the covers and curl into the other’s warmth.

It’s not typically how fuck buddies work.

– That’s what Dean has said they are –

At breakfast, Dean makes a homely breakfast; they discuss plans for the week. It’s a forged domesticity, two people clinging to a façade of normal.

Thing is, as the door clicks shut behind him and Castiel tugs at the lapels, the same as Dean does when he kisses him, he doesn’t know if he could go back to before.

Before seems so...

 

 

Ordinary.


	13. Drawn Blinds

It was only a kiss, Dean marvels at an inopportune moment of sheer chaos, because some big time author is coming in. The office is, notably, flustering and awkward, everyone simultaneously trying to freak out in excitement and keep their cool to not lose their jobs. Cas, without fail, is the epitome of calm.

Not that he should be, because Dean had him slammed up against the slats of his blinds during their lunch break, not even 10 minutes ago. He’d pinned him there, snuck his hands under that perfectly tucked in shirt, had made those bright blue eyes and perfect mouth go wide, had kissed him deep and slow; in a second of abrupt movement, had pecked him once and left his office. He has Cas’ glasses in his pocket, because the man has a glasses kink and Dean had originally snuck them from his pocket as a joke. He hopes Cas’ reading isn’t too bad, or he might have to drop in and save him, inconspicuously.

Cas shoots him a weary glance as he exits his office – tie still skewed – to welcome the author in.

Dean sniggers to himself. He’s turned into a hormonal teenager in a specifically adult situation. Who knew that this job would be so good for him? Or bad. It depends on how you look at it, because in the long run it’s going to be hard to detach himself from his boss. He promised himself no feelings.

But it’s Cas.

And there’s already too many feelings jumping up his throat at just the thought of the man.

The next weeks at work are quiet. It’s hard to steal more than heated kisses through the closed blinds on his office windows.


	14. Mornings Are Ours

It’s not just at work, though. They have both managed to forget the rules of engagement, how dangerous their copulation is for their jobs and emotional stability. It would be best if they didn’t do lots of not-couple things, like calling each other at random intervals of the night.

“Cas?”

“Hello Dean.”

Even though it’s 4am, and Dean knows they both have work in 3 hours, he smiles.

“Confess something to me, Dean.” Cas says, out of the blue.

“What?”

Dean rolls over, so that he’s lying on his side, staring out of the window.

“Confess something to me. First impressions.”

He scrunches up his face. “Dude we aren’t pubescent girls, this isn’t a sleepover game.”

“You were rude and obnoxious; still are, actually.” Cas continues, oblivious to Dean’s opinion on the matter.

Dean huffs.

“First impressions hmm,” he mutters to himself, “I thought you were a stick up your ass goodie goodie who went to church.”

It’s Cas’ turn to huff in amusement.

“Every time you and Zachariah used to fight, I would to stop what I was doing to listen.”

“Well duh, that’s because you’re a spineless asshole.” Dean laughs, changing position so that he’s looking up at his ceiling.

“I always came out to defend you.” He states, actual offense lingering in his tone.

It has been Dean’s mission to de-robotise Cas and he’s made so much progress, Cas almost gets some of his music references. Sometimes though, the word ‘literal’ does not describe Cas enough.

“Sure... you did.” He hesitates before confessing the next thing because, well, it’s delving much deeper than joking around. Why is it that after a certain point of the day, or maybe after a certain time without sleep the rational side of the brain, with the appropriate filters, switches off. “I tried to get you to drink with me because I wanted to get to know you.”

Cas’ breathing hitches, minutely, and there’s the sound of shuffling sheets in the background.

“When we hustled pool and you wore my coat I wanted to bend you over the table and fuck you.”

Heart thudding widely in his chest, Dean tries to ignore how dry his mouth has gone and the heat that is pooling in his lower abdomen. Like he said, the rational side of his brain upped and left awhile ago now.

“Oh yeah,” he croaks, “When you got sent to New York I, uh, jacked off wearing your coat.”

There’s a muffled groaning sound, Dean thinks, before Cas speaks again.

“Would you do it again?”

The question takes him by surprise; he’s wanted to do it since Cas took his coat back. Hell, that dumb ass trenchcoat is in almost every fantasy he has whether it’s Cas wearing it like a doctors lab coat, or Dean coming all over it, it’s practically a series regular.

“Well, technically I already have...”

“How many times?” His voice sounds wrecked, far rougher than earlier.

“4 or 5,” Dean shouldn’t be turned on by this; Cas doesn’t sound angry, aroused and interested (which will be fuelling him for days).

“Mmmph.”

That’s a noise he _does_ recognise and suddenly his half hard cock doesn’t seem so bad.

“Cas... Cas are you jerkin’ off to this?”

“Mhmm.” Cas hums through the phone.

Double taking, Dean pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at it in disbelief. He bites his lip, mentally debating the pros and cons of his next sentence. In the end he decides fuck it, Cas’ bed is way nicer and has _Cas_ in it.

“I could come over and help you out, if you want.”

“You’ll have to hurry.”

Dean has not driven this fast in his life; the streets are graciously empty so he reaches Cas’ apartment in double time. He raps his knuckles on the door impatiently, palming himself with his other hand to get his dick back in the game.

As soon as the lock on the door clicks open Dean barrels inside, shoving Cas against the wall without care to the door that is hanging wide open. He kisses him, hard, biting gently on his lower lip and bless Cas for being buck ass nude. Cas groans, making an impatient sound and rolls his hips into Dean’s, gasping into Dean’s mouth at the friction. Pulling away slightly, Dean fists Cas with long strokes that speed up until Cas is reduced to harsh pants, his head resting on Dean’s shoulder, fingers grasping at the back of his neck. He’s pretty sure there are going to be the ghosts of lines, pink scratches left there, and, honestly, that’s the hottest image that’s played out in his mind for a long time; it spurs him on, his fingers on his free hand groping Cas’ ass, dragging his leg up to change the angle.

Cas comes, white stripes across the fly of Dean’s jeans and he would be lying if he said his dick didn’t twitch at the almost primal possessiveness of that action. It feels like a declaration, an ownership. Dean kisses Cas again, sucking on his tongue and is thrown back against the other side of the hall. Cas drops to his knees, mouthing at his drying come and, by extension, Dean’s dick through the denim fabric.

“Caaas,” Dean whines, and he _feels_ the other man’s god damn smirk.

Cas takes pity, soon – after Dean’s breath has hitched and his heart has pounded a racket in his chest – pulling down the zipper and taking Dean’s erection in his hand. He licks a stripe, from the tip to the base and Dean’s legs are shaking, the image of Cas doing _that_ imprinted into his mind. He flicks his tongue in the slit, making Dean cry out and thread his fingers through Cas’ hair. Cas takes him down, nearly to the base and begins to suck, flattening his tongue along the vein and jacking loosely what he can’t fit down his throat.

Dean doesn’t last long, his hips thrusting in short bursts and then he’s coming, Cas is swallowing, jumping up to his feet; their soft cocks brushing, mouths clashing, eyes closing. Dean Winchester may never make it through the pearly gates, but that’s ok, he’s found heaven right here.

Early morning sex becomes a before work ritual. Dean has a sneaking suspicion it’s because he always cooks breakfast after.


	15. Late Nights At The Office

Cas can’t help the gleeful inside knowledge that coils in his gut. Outside of the bedroom, or office, or wherever they actually meet up, Dean oozes confidence and cockiness. His whole demeanour screams solidarity and dominance, though Castiel has fallen – rather unfortunately – for the man hidden beneath.

The man he sees in his kitchen, the next morning. When it should be weird, they sit down and talk like adults, like _couples_ , while they eat. It’s the same within office hours, fleeting touches or long looks. Dean makes sure to try and either annoy Castiel into a smile or fluster him to the point of an actual one as often as possible.

Cas has long since stopped having a go at him for it.

He’s sitting in his office; it’s been weeks since he and Dean did anything together. It is funny how that has become a unit of time for him.

There is a pattern, not so much on and off, but he is a business man and it would be embarrassing if he didn’t notice the blue prints to similar events. Weekends, when Dean cannot meet, he returns on Monday haggard. As though he has stared into the depths of wallowing despair, walked past the essence of anguish and brushed shoulders with the figures of sorrow. He performs his job the same way he always has. It’s simply robotic, muscle memory and reflex, opposing the man who usually enjoys his job.

The natural thing to do is to call him to his office. But Castiel doesn’t want the irritation of interruptions, the fear of having to cut what could once again be incredibly personal, leaving them both frayed and in the wind not worth the risk. He waits until after hours, giving them at least an hour before the cleaning crews come.

“What’s the word Cas?” Dean says, shutting the door and dropping heavily into the seat opposite him.

Cas regards him then, his curiously mussed hair, laden eyes buzzed with obvious overdose of caffeine.

“Are you alright?” He asks, moving round the side of his desk to look at him, really look at him.

Dean blinks at him a few times.

“Yeah, I’m just tired man,” He stifles a yawn, “Nightmares, ya know?”

He moves into Dean’s personal space, taking in the close up view; how even his freckles seem to have dimmed under whatever is hanging over him.

“You’re lying.”

He’s practically in Dean’s lap, their knees brushing from how his arms are braced on the chair, cornering him. He stares at Dean longer, searching in his eyes with a squint for what is holding him back, the lack of trust despite everything they’ve been through.

Dean doesn’t dispute him, but he doesn’t offer an alternative.

Castiel leans away.

His hand is grabbed by frantic fingers, the drag of fabric as the hand works up his own covered wrist and arm. 

“You wanna know why I became a fire fighter, Cas?”

Dean swallows violently, his Adams apple bobbing with the effort. The words drag themselves from his lips like rough metal, tearing the confidence and assurance from his voice.

“When I was 9, my house caught fire.” He states emotionlessly, “Nearly killed my whole family.”

His eyes look up, suddenly, wild and feral, desperate.

“Every time I close my eyes at night I see it Cas.”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“When I’m with you though...”

_This was never supposed to be about feelings, Cassie._

Their eyes meet again.

_You make it all go away._

Castiel is familiar with the conundrum.

The next thing he knows, Dean is shoving him against the desk and kissing him; kissing him within in an inch of drowning without air, his lungs holding out for as long as they can, beneath the slide of Dean’s lips. Dean sucks on his tongue, arms wrapping around the small of his back. Their hips collide with force, pushing and pulling each other like animals. Cas’ hands worm their way up, one clutching Dean by the shoulder, the other scraping back through his short hair to cradle his head to him. They break apart, and Dean takes the embrace, tucking his head into Cas’ to nuzzle his neck.

He shuffles Dean all the way back, the blinds crumpling as Dean backs into them. Cas drops to his knees, working Dean out of his neat slacks.

“Cas... I need-“

Cas brings himself back up, kissing Dean soundly and fisting his hair, tilting his head to get deeper. Dean only has his customary long sleeve shirt on, having been preparing to grab his jacket to leave when Cas summoned him, and an idea sparks in Cas’ mind. Dean wants assertion, _dominance_.

That is something he can most definitely provide.

Quickly undoing the buttons to his shirt, earning him a whine and the flutter of the blinds as Dean’s body shifts against them; he pulls the offending fabric down to Dean’s wrists. There he stops, looking Dean in the eye and smirking at the dilation of pupils at the indication. He leaves Dean’s hands, tapped behind his own back and the office window.

“Don’t move.”

_About 20 minutes until the cleaners come_

Biting and sucking his way down, paying special attention to each tattoo in turn, Cas runs his hands across Dean’s torso. The first bead of sweat drips down his muscular peck, his arms flexing and straining not to speed up or move on Cas’ affections.

Cas’ continues on, probably slower than Dean wants, unzipping him and taking his dick from the tented boxers. It bobs in the air, precome dribbling down from the red swollen head. He reaches Dean’s leaking dick, and he pulls back to look up, his eyes crinkling at a mixture of frustration and arousal on the face of the man above him. He flicks his tongue against the slit, Dean garbling a strangled sound at finally getting what he wants, and then he sinks down. He bobs and sucks at a relentless pace, until Dean’s thighs tremble beneath his hands.

 _He’s close_ , Cas thinks smugly to himself.

Flattening his tongue, he takes Dean deeper, the head bumping the back of his throat. Dean arches up and he cries out, his chest heaving with pleasure and his orgasm sweeps through him. He collapses against the crooked blinds as Cas swallows.

Dean groans, and Cas pulls back with a pleased smile. He puts Dean back into his boxers, does up his trousers and stands to his feet, his knees popping as he does so. Dean’s breathing has slowed to a normal rate, and Cas leans back to admire all the red, blotchy marks he’s left over the tattoos on his body. Dean’s head drops down to look too; he gives him a half-hearted, before reaching out to attempt to repay the favour. Cas shakes his head, leaning in to kiss him – mournfully pulling back and staring at his own erection – and then turns to grab his coat, shucking it on, and briefcase.

“There’s no time, Dean.” He flicks the light off, Dean having not moved from his somewhat incapacitated state against the windows, “Unless you want to continue this somewhere more private.”


	16. Oh-

They have a routine. They fit together, pieces of the same puzzle of the most efficient machine. Work, rest, play. He doesn’t regret anything; Cas is a genuine guy with the body, eyes and personality of a God, a decent boss and he gets a satisfying lay out of it. Even his nightmares have zeroed down; he actually thinks he gets more than 4 hours a night.

Sometimes though, at times like now, Cas can be the biggest asshole in the world. They’ve come back from the office, on a weekday, and have been doing an impressive amount of making out and slow burn; after ordering take out and watching half an episode of Game of Thrones.

Things have just started to go somewhere, the two of them stumbling down Dean’s hall to the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed and ravaging the clothes off that separates them. Dean was about to give Cas the hand job of his _life_ when his phones goes off. It’s been ringing steadily all evening, from his room, but he’d ignored it in favour for Cas’ tongue. If he doesn’t do something about it now, it might interrupt them later; Cas grunts and pushes him off towards it. With a groan Dean rolls, preparing to turn the damn thing off and pounce back on the man.

He reads the caller ID though, and even a booty call doesn’t come between him and his brother. Presumably, it has been Sam this whole time, and he’s a paranoid little shit, and would probably end up coming over if Dean didn’t answer.

That’s a conversation he doesn’t want to have.

He answers, aiming to get this over and done rapidly. Falling onto his back, he sighs.

“Yeah Sammy?”

 “Hey Dean, I’ve been calling you all evening. The hell dude?” Sam’s irritated voice chimes through the phone.

Licking his lips, Dean clears his throat and distractedly draws his gaze away from Cas’ very prominent erection right beside him. He nearly chokes on his saliva when Cas takes his hand and uses it as a fist to jerk up into.

He covers it as a cough. Barely.

“Sorry man, something uh... Something came up.”

Cas’ laugh is a rumble, that is deep and throaty and trembles all the way up Dean’s hand. It’s deliciously rich and Dean wishes he was recording because that, all three seconds of it, was awesome. Cas’ dick is slick with precome, and Dean watches, mesmerised, momentarily forgetting Sam is on the line.

“Something came _up_ indeed.” Cas grunts.

Cas manipulates his fingers, those beautiful fingers wrapped around his own, and twists, groaning and thrusting into Dean’s hand.

“Dude have you got... Are you with someone right now?”

“Gotta go Sammy,” He wheezes out, chucking his phone somewhere and rolling to pin Castiel to the mattress.

“You,” He kisses him with a ferocity that is bordering on animalistic, “fucking,” retreating back, he pulls on the bottom of Cas’ saliva slicked lips, “bastard.”

Wrapping his hand around them both, he strokes up and down their shafts, unrelenting until they come together, in a biting kiss and scratch of nails across his back. He wears them the next day like he wears his tattoos: a badge of fucking honour.

It’s at the office, on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, with the ghost of Cas’ blunt nails in his back, that he has a kind of epiphany.

Life is starting to look not so shitty. He’s got his brother, his job, and Cas. Well, he hasn’t got Cas, but he’s got as close as he deserves and as close as he will ever get. Things aren’t looking up, exactly, and his body is still a ridiculous mesh of self loathing and scarring – Cas doesn’t mind – he can actually say, that he has a little ray of sunshine.

It doesn’t feel like he’s drowning anymore, the solid line of his past and his present and the unwelcome unknown of the _future_ hanging over him. The fear of existing, with everything balancing on a solid plank that teeters precariously on his shoulders, doesn’t appear to be as impossible anymore. Sammy would be proud, he’s probably, mentally, better than he has been for a while.

He’s doing ok.

He’s-


	17. Saturday.

He gets the news on a Saturday.

John’s voice is crackly, shaking, and broken; it’s not because of the reception.

“You tell your brother...” He trails off.

Dean bites back a retort, the tears haven’t come yet. It’s too sudden, fresh, like ripping the stitches from a wound.

“Yes sir.”

He doesn’t know what to do. For a while, he stares blankly at his dirty white wall, listening to the sounds of silence. He glances to his left, out of his bedroom window, to the dark night sky. The stars shine, pinpricks in the vast black expanse; he has the urge to join them.

He races out of his flat, drawing his Dad’s leather jacket over his shoulders. Snatching the keys from the breakfast bar, he takes the stairs two at a time. He’s angry. Irrationally so, but he’s so damn angry.

He slams his fists against the cold wheel of the Impala. Tears threaten to spill out of his eyes; they’re on the cusp of the walls of the dam. He holds it back. He takes a shuddering breath and brings the phone to his ear.

“Dean?”

He will admit to the few that fall as he blinks, his brother’s concerned sleep thick voice tumbling through the speaker. Dean tries to hold it in so hard, the choked sob racking it’s way across his chest and up his throat.

“Dean... oh Dean please no!”

He sobs. He can’t hold it back. Sam joins him and then there’s a smaller, high pitch cry. He bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood, the tears collecting in the corners of his eyes, streaks careering down his cheeks.

“I’ll be over in a bit, ok Sammy?”

He drives around for a while. Aimlessly wandering the streets in his car, he doesn’t even have his accompanying music. He stops when he realises, wiping his eyes, that he’s driving towards Cas’. He’s lucky that the streets are empty, as he slams his foot on the brakes and skids along the road.

Breathing heavily, he hears the whine of a police car in the distance. Hesitant to start driving again, he clenches his fists and turns moves into gear. The drive to Sam’s is quiet, uneventful, giving him too much time with the emptiness consuming his mind. He pulls up outside, to Sam and Jess waiting.

Grabbing armfuls of his brother, he hauls him in. Suddenly, he’s 9 and Sam’s 4; Sam just a bundle of sobbing limbs in his arms. His frame shudders with his cries and for the first time since Dean heard, he feels strong. He has to be strong for Sammy.

He fists his brother’s too long hair, squeezing once more before pulling away.

“I gotta make a stop and then we’ll go ok?”

Jess hugs him, her small frame squashed against his. It’s nice, the support, but it’s not what he needs.

He needs Cas.

Bundling in the back, Sam cradles Jess to him, lying across the seats. Dean drives quickly, emotions coiling in his gut. If he could have his way, he’d either take Cas with him or never leave again.

“I’ll be two minutes.” He calls to them, but they’re already asleep. It’s funny, how people cope. When you’ve been crying for so long and the sweet arms of unconsciousness grip you, it’s all too easy to fall under.

He shuts his door, mindful of Sam and Jess. The small pathway up to Cas’ looks a hell of a lot more ominous now. His footsteps patter, seemingly loud in the stark quiet of the late hours of the night. Rapping his knuckles against the wood, he stands back on the porch.

The door opens to a sleepy eyed Cas, trackies low on his hips and _Dean’s_ old Led Zepplin t-shirt thrown over his broad chest. He wipes his eyes, hand dropping when he sees Dean.

“Dean, is everything-“

He hauls Cas in, burying his face into the stubbly curve of his neck. Cas immediately wraps his arms around him, practically holding all the pieces of Dean together.

“Dean what’s wrong?” Cas mumbles into his hair, face turned towards Dean’s own.

He clears his throat and draws back.

“I’m uh... Going out of town, for a bit.”

Cas looks confused. His features contort with the suggestion and his arms pimple as a rush of wind blows past them.

“What? Where are you going? For how long?” He asks, hand reached out to brush the stray tears tracking down his face.

Dean’s eyes soften but he doesn’t answer. Cas looks past him, to the Impala where he can see the shadows of people in the back. His throat bobs the other hand reaching out, cupping his cheeks and anchoring Dean to the present. The tears threaten to break out, when he feels himself lean into the touch, craving it, seeking its comfort. Him and Cas may not be a ‘thing’ but this isn’t exactly normal either.

“Promise me you’ll tell me?” Cas pleads, his fingers rubbing away the tear streaks.

Dean’s breath hitches at the desperation in his voice.

Pressing forward, he kisses Cas soundly on the lips. Once, no tongue, it isn’t heated, he can’t trust that if he speaks he will ask to crawl into Cas’ bed and stay there. He pulls away, an inch, leaning his forehead against Cas’ and he blinks, keeping his eyes screwed shut. A single tear dribbles from his eye and runs off onto Cas’ cheek.

“When I get back,” He breathes in, his chest constricted and tight, “I promise to tell you everything.”

He kisses him again. And again... One more time.

Dean steps back, eyes sad as he meets Cas’ own.

“I’ll tell you everything.”


	18. Not Him.

Dean leaves; doesn’t say where he’s going or how long he will be. He hasn’t taken any sick days, not since he started work so he’s got at most 3 months. _3 months._ Cas puts the papers down, sliding his glasses off his nose and rests his head in his palm.

_He’s just your secretary._

He snorts. Of course, he can spend the next months that Dean has of official leave telling himself that Dean was just a secretary, another blip in his timeline, that he also happened to have meaningful sex with and enjoyed the company of. I mean, it doesn’t get more casual than that, does it?

Castiel doesn’t know what to do, with himself, with the situation. So, he effects to do the only thing he knows how to do – he waits.

He does not hire a replacement.

Continuing on as he always has, Cas schedules his meetings and types all his letters. He had no idea how involved Dean’s job actually was; the small touches like coffee in the morning, or leaving a bagel on his desk on days Dean knew he would not venture out of his office suddenly hit him full force. Even before their relationship... Evolved, Dean made sure that Cas was catered for and comfortable.

He buries himself in work.

A whole month passes.

No call, no text and no email. Cas doesn’t know where Dean has gone, or really that he had ever existed.

He’s left with cherished memories and confused feelings, a hollow ache in his heart every time he glances up in his office, to see through the blinds an empty desk.

By the time it has gone 4 months, with no communication whatsoever, Cas had given up hope. He had seriously questioned whether Dean was real at all; maybe he was lonely and imagined the perfect man to help himself.

It’s a Sunday, his one day off, and the rain is spattering against his windowsill. He finds comfort in the sound of the rain, the cool refreshment that it brings whisking through his open windows. He’s sitting in the living room, phone on the small wooden table where he had discarded it after _another_ concerned conversation with his brother.

Castiel appreciates Gabriel’s effort, but really, unless he has a locator spell, there isn’t much he can do. His personal hygiene has digressed enormously; his messy hair flopped over his face as he adjusts the book in his hands. On days like these he indulges in wearing one of the tops Dean had left here, some sort of comfort mechanism to remind himself that those touches, those _feelings,_ were real.

Needless to say, it no longer smells like Dean.

He is startled from his reading by a slightly timid but frantic knock at his door. With the exception of Dean, who introduced him to Charlie, Ash and Garth (none of whom know where Dean had gone either) he didn’t exactly have friends. He liked his job, he liked his books and socialising had never been a high priority of his.

Standing, he pulls the waistband of his trackies so they no longer ride low on his hips and shuffles to the door. As he opens it, he is greeted with the largest man he’s seen in a long time; his gangly frame towering in his doorstep, young face framed in droplets of rain. He wants to punch himself for the thought that follows. It’s preposterous, bordering on insane. However, the features on his face look devastatingly familiar. The man shifts on his feet under Castiel’s scrutiny, and he realises that neither of them had said anything.

The young man clears his throat. “You must be Castiel.”

Cas blinks.

“Yes, and you are...?” He rocks the door gently, swaying on too tired feet.

“Sam Winchester... I’m uh, Dean’s brother.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just swallows the lump that’s crawling up his throat and swings the door open fully. In the dim lighting of his doorway he can see the age stretched into the skin of Sam’s face, the faint lines of cuts and pale discolouration of faded bruises on his cheeks and neck.

Thankfully, Sam takes the gesture to mean that he can enter. He quickly toes off his soaking shoes and removes his coat. Cas closes the door and steps in front of him in silence, noting the cast on Sam’s left forearm and for a moment of concern he wonders if Sam drove in this weather with one hand. It is certainly something Dean would do.

The tall shadow stalks his movements down the hall to the kitchen. Sam is nervous, obviously not comfortable in Cas’ presence, or maybe he is just physically outputting the tension between them both. This has to be about Dean – Cas closes his eyes for a brief second to compose himself.

“Can I get you a coffee, or tea?” He asks, noting that Sam has slumped himself fully into the chairs at his kitchen table. From what Cas remembers, Sam is younger, by what 4 years, so he can be no more than 22. He steals glances, the lines of worry and hue of bruises on his skin makes the boy look old; he holds the same weight on his shoulders that Dean always seemed to. The lighting in Cas’ kitchen does not do him any favours.

“Coffee, please.” Sam’s got both his hands leaning on the wood, fiddling with his fingers.

Cas turns the coffee machine on, the atmosphere in the room heavy and hanging over them both; he almost jumps when Sam begins to speak.

“He liked you a lot, you know.” He mumbles, as though he is surprised by the notion of his brother liking someone.

Cas tries not to break apart there and then at the use of past tense. Instead, he clumsily pulls two cups from his cupboard.

“He’d uh, always call and talk to me about his ‘hardass of a boss’.” Sam chuckles. It sounds strained and forced. “And after a while I realised that when he called, he just sounded... Happy.”

Cas turns to see Sam brush a hand down his face, wincing when his fingers catch on a still healing wound.

“Dean didn’t stick around with people and he-“ Sam chokes on something, or nothing. Absently, Cas freezes and wonders if he should go over there, he doesn’t know how much comfort he will be when he can already see where this is going.

Sam’s eyes meet his - the glassy hazel alive with the same fire that used to burn in forest green. He slams his hand down on the wood, something cracking with the force. Whatever Sam had been fiddling with in his palm now lies on the table, Sam slowly retracts his hand.

“He said that he was going to give it to you.”

The emotion has drained from Sam’s voice. An absolute void and Cas can’t see what exactly he tried to press into his table so he waits, he waits for the coffee pot to click and he pours the each a mug. Carrying them over, he really does nearly drop them.

A ring.

No, Dean’s Mother’s ring.

But why would Dean-

He is cut off by a sob, his own fingers reaching out to touch the cool metal. Sam seems fascinated by his own hands again, running his fingers over his abused knuckles.

“He wanted you to have it. He was going to ask you.” He’s incredibly thankful Sam didn’t complete that sentence.

Cas retreats back, the metal warmed from Sam’s fiddling, just a simple trinket that meant so much to Dean. He never did find out what. Dean had promised that when he got back...

“How?”

They were dancing around it. Cas hadn’t asked and Sam hadn’t explicitly said it, but they both knew that Cas knew why Sam was telling him this and not Dean.

“I-It was an accident.” Taking a few shaky gulps of air, Sam bunches his hands into fists, red knuckles whitening under the pressure. “Our Mom died,” inhale, “W-we were driving back from the funeral,” exhale, “A-and me and Dad were arguing about something dumb in the front, Dean and Jess were laughing at us f-from the back.”

For a moment, Cas thinks Sam’s lungs have ceased existence.

“The truck driver was drunk.” Sam whispers, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth.

 

Cas shuts the door on Sam Winchester a few minutes later. He slides down the hard frame, clutching the ring in the palm of his hand. Outside, the rain patters against the concrete, drowning the muffled sniffles as tears slip down his face.

He waited for Dean Winchester.

Burying his face into his drawn knees, he cries for a man he didn’t have. He cries for all the times he could have said it, to let him know that he felt that way too. For the lost time and aborted normalities that could have kept Dean here. He cries hard and fast in the knowledge that Dean will remain his enigma. His puzzle; never to be solved. For the first time in his life, Castiel mourns a piece of himself he didn’t realise was missing until it was gone.

 


End file.
